


You Can’t Take The Sky From Me

by indiefic



Series: You Can't Take The Sky From Me [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe borrowing liberally from the Star Wars EU, Alternate Universe loosely based on Firefly, Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, I borrowed Varys from GoT because I needed him, coffee - so much coffee, implied past sexual assault, mentions of one person drugging another, steggy babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Firefly inspired AU (but you do NOT need to be familiar with Firefly to follow the story).  </p><p>Peggy spent a decade as one of Londinium’s highest paid companions.  Now she’s the newest member of Fury’s crew and she has a huge secret.  Steve is freelance muscle who made his way to Alliance space to start a new life.  It’s a small ship.  Things happen.   Especially when Steve and Peggy find out they have more in common than they ever dreamed possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very AU. I’ve borrowed liberally from Firefly (mostly the idea that they’re a bunch of misfits on a ship and some of the Alliance/browncoats stuff), the Star Wars EU (for how the Porth Empire works, core world/outer rim and some of the tech terms.), and a tish of Game of Thrones here and there. Characters from the entire MCU are borrowed willy nilly and this has no relevance to or compliance with the canon MCU.

“And where are you from, my lovely?” he asks, looking her over.

 

“Porth,” Peggy says, surprising herself.  She watches the way the customer’s eyebrows raise.  

 

Then he smiles, like he’s afraid of seeming gullible.  “Ol’ Ferris couldn’t afford a Porthi girl.  Not even a swayback.”

 

“Oh, I’m not a swayback,” Peggy assures him.  She plucks, with her red lacquered nails, at the silky black ties to her robe.  She pulls the knot free so that the robe falls open, revealing the sheer, black lace negligee beneath.  She pulls the robe down, and twists, baring the back of her right shoulder.  She hears his breath catch and knows what he sees.  The mark.  Three concentric circles with a star at the center.  

 

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, awed.  He swallows thickly.  “How’d Ferris manage to catch you?”

 

Peggy pulls the robe up, covering her shoulder.  She shrugs.  “Sometimes my luck runs out.  You must know what that’s like.”

 

He frowns, confused.  He hears the floor creak and turns - 

 

Just in time for Cap’s blistering right to nail him across the jaw.  Cap catches him before he falls and lowers him quietly to the floor.  

 

Cap glances up at Peggy and their eyes meet for a moment.  He drops his gaze, taking in her provocative outfit.  She pulls her robe tighter around her body, covering herself.  She spent years as a companion, but it doesn’t mean that everyone gets a free show, especially not  _ him _ .  

 

Bucky’s right behind Cap, and starts digging through the guy’s pockets.

 

“ _ Marge _ .”

 

Peggy turns and sees Jack outside the window, motioning to her.  She goes to him, following him out onto the small ledge.  They scoot along in the dark, clutching to the side of the building.  They’re at least a dozen stories up and Peggy refuses to look down.  The wind is howling around them, buffeting them strongly, making it nearly impossible to hear one another.

 

They get to the ladder and start climbing for the roof.  Jack goes first, setting a steady pace, which Peggy struggles to match.  The problem with being dressed like a companion is that she’s dressed like a companion.  Her shoes are completely unsuitable for climbing a rickety, rusty ladder in the dark.  

 

They’re almost to the top when she hears Jack curse.  He scrambles, falls, catches himself with a loud thud.  But his foot smashes into her hand and she loses her grip.  Peggy manages to catch the ladder with two fingers, but it’s impossible.  She dangles.  Her hold gives way and she falls - 

 

The hand clamps around her upper arm with crushing force, stopping her instantly, jolting every bone in her body.   

 

Cap immediately pulls her closer.  He tucks her against his body with a graceful ease that is possible only because of his incredible physical strength.  His arm is banded around her middle, holding her steady.  For a long moment, she stays exactly as she is, clinging to him.  She fights for breath, her fingernails biting into his back as she presses her face to his chest, shaking.  

 

Peggy doesn’t like Cap.  And he doesn’t like her.  But right now, she would give him a go for free as thanks.

 

He ducks his head, his lips against her ear, so she can hear him over the wind.  She can feel his short facial scruff as he speaks.  “You okay?”

 

She nods.

 

“Can you climb?”

 

She nods again.

 

She thinks he’s going to release her, but he shifts his weight on the rickety ladder, kicking at her feet with one of his.  Her ridiculous shoes fall away.  She hears Bucky curse below them on the ladder.  She can’t make out the words, but she has a good guess at what he said.  She hopes he didn’t catch a stiletto heel to the eye.  

 

Those shoes cost five hundred credits.  And she already knows that Cap has no intention of reimbursing her for them.  Asshole.  This isn’t even his op.

 

He shifts, moving her, so she’s on the ladder, her feet a step above his.  His arms bracket either side of her body.  She starts to climb again.

 

They make it to the roof and Hill is there with the scout ship.

 

* * *

 

“We get the goods?” Fury asks.

 

Bucky pulls the documents out of his pocket, tossing them down on the galley table in front of Fury.  Looking the papers over, Fury nods.  He hands them to Natasha, who sits next to him.  

 

She eyes them critically.  “This is it,” she says blandly.  This was supposed to be her op.  But the dislocated knee has had her sidelined for weeks.  She looks up at Peggy.  “Porth, huh?”

 

Peggy shrugs.  She knows Natasha was listening on the comm.  Peggy doesn’t want to take Natasha’s place on the crew.  But their skillsets are similar, so there’s been some unavoidable friction.  “The more exotic, the better, right?  Maybe I should have said Asgard.”

 

Natasha looks her up and down, and then away.  “Asgard would have been more believable,” she says.  The censure is clear.  “Porthi women don’t leave Porth.  Not even the swaybacks.”

 

“Surely some of them do,” Bucky says, sliding into a chair next to Natasha.  “Otherwise there wouldn’t be stories.”  Peggy hasn’t been with the crew long, but she already knows that Bucky loves inane arguments.  And Natasha.  

 

Natasha snorts.  “Yeah, the Collector had a Porthi woman up for auction about fifteen years ago.  She went for a half a  _ billion _ credits.”

 

Bucky whistles.  “What the hell would make anyone fork over half a billion credits for a piece of ass?”

 

Natasha shrugs.  “Forbidden fruit.  Most people have never seen a Porthi woman.  Not even in pictures.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky says skeptically.  “A few of the girls at Ferris’s place are good lookin’ and great in the sack.  And they go for a hell of a lot less than half a billion credits.”

 

“You’d know better than me,” Natasha says blandly.

 

Bucky smiles unrepentantly.  

 

Jack leans back against the wall, watching, but remaining silent.  He does that a lot.  He’s new.  He joined the crew about a month after Peggy and she knows he’s still trying to find his place.  She understands his strategy, but she doesn’t like how hard it makes him to read.

 

“Her name was Whitney Frost,” Cap says quietly.  He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.  He’s removed most of his tactical gear.  The black t-shirt he wears is incredibly tight.  The material is stretched taut over his thickly muscled arms and chest.  His blond hair is sticking up in spiky tufts.  He’d probably be attractive, if he wasn’t such a jerk.

 

Natasha looks at him, eyebrow arched.

 

“The Porthi woman who Tivan auctioned off,” Cap clarifies.  “Her name was Whitney Frost.  And she wasn’t just Porthi.  She was Porthi nobility.”

 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Bucky says incredulously, tucking a lock of greasy dark hair behind his ear,  “it’d be interesting to nail a princess, but there’s lot of royalty floating around the galaxy.  It can’t be worth a half a billion credits.” 

 

Cap shrugs.  “Worth more than that, to the right person.”

 

Natasha eyes him critically.  “I forget you’re a swayback, Cap.”

 

He frowns at her, neither confirming nor denying her words.  As a rule, Cap doesn’t speak much.  Natasha and Bucky both seem determined to keep him talking.  

 

“So Frost was a princess?” Natasha asks.

 

“Nobility,” Cap says, shaking his head.  It always strikes Peggy as odd, how articulate he can be.  Given the way he looks, she expects his vocabulary to be limited to grunts and monosyllables.

 

“There’s a difference?” Bucky asks dubiously.

 

“A world of difference,” Cap says.  “Female Porthi don’t leave the Porth Empire.  They’re its most valued members.  Society is matriarchal and insular.  The nobility wield power and wealth.  But royalty - “ he shrugs.  “Their whims shape the course of the known universe.”

 

Bucky makes a face.  “Still doesn’t explain why would somebody want to buy one of them.”

 

Natasha shrugs.  “Anything sufficiently rare can be fetishized.  Maybe Frost got off on people having a bidding war for her.”

 

“Aren’t Porthi supposed to be great in the sack?” Bucky asks, one eyebrow raised.

 

Natasha meets his gaze evenly and then pointedly glances at Cap.  “That’s what the Porthi say.”

 

Peggy turns to leave.  She has a flak jacket on over her ridiculous outfit, and she’s still barefoot.  She’s got better things to do than stand here and listen to the crew speculate on the inner workings of Porthi society and sex.  She heads for her bunk.  

 

“Have Cho check that arm,” Fury calls after her.

 

In the crew quarters, Peggy takes off the robe and lace negligee, packing them away in her footlocker and stowing them under her bunk.  Remnants of a previous life, which she does not plan to revisit.  She is still a licensed companion.  It’s why Fury wanted her on the crew.  It’s easier for a ship to dock at a port if they have a companion on board.  But it’s not how Peggy earns her money these days.

 

She changes into the worn, skin tight black trousers and her heavy black boots.  In anticipation of Cho’s examination, she squeezes a dab of synthskin into her palm and smooths it over her shoulder, hiding her mark.  Then she throws on an ancient black t-shirt and covers it with a dark gray sweater.

 

On her way to the infirmary, Peggy passes the galley again.  It’s the only space in the ship really large enough for people to congregate, other than the cargo hold.  Fury’s gone when Peggy looks, but Cap and Bucky are sitting with Natasha, talking, all three of them with beers.  Peggy doesn’t know where Jack went.  Maybe the facilities.  The ship isn’t large and there are nine crew members, in addition to whatever cargo they might be transporting.  It doesn’t leave much room for privacy.

 

Helen Cho is in her quarters, which double as the infirmary.  She rates private quarters.  Fury, Stark and Cap also have private quarters.  Everyone else gets a bunk.

 

Cho checks Peggy’s arm.  It hurts like hell and the imprint from Cap’s hand is clearly visible.  You can count the finger marks.  It’s going to bruise like a sonofabitch.  But it still beats being plastered all over the sidewalk in front of Ferris’s whorehouse.

 

“Ice it,” Cho says.  “Take regular painkillers if you need them.  I don’t think anything is permanently damaged, but you’re going to be sore.”  

 

Peggy nods and Cho turns away, heading into the back room.

 

Shrugging into her sweater, Peggy hops off the exam table.  She turns to see Cap leaning against the open doorway, watching her.  

 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says evenly.

 

Peggy bristles, sticking her chin out as she stares at him.

 

“Are you injured?” he asks, though he doesn’t sound particularly concerned.

 

“I’m fine,” she snaps, glaring.  “You owe me a pair of stilettos.”

 

He looks at her, smiling darkly, holding her gaze for a long moment.  Then he shrugs and walks away.  Peggy knows she’s never getting those shoes.

 

She sighs and turns down the hall.  Cap is Porthi.  The others may suspect as much, but Peggy knows it with certainty.  She can practically feel it when she looks at him.  He’s a swayback, that goes without saying.  No other self-respecting Porthi would ever leave the Empire.  It simply is not done.  Plus, Cap looks the part.  The Porthi underclass, swaybacks, were genetically modified millennia ago, designed for the hard labor that shaped the Porth Empire.  Cap’s physical proportions and strength are definitely consistent with someone designed and bred for hard labor.  

 

As Cap told Bucky and Natasha, the Porth Empire is incredibly insular.  The star system is rich in natural resources, so outside trade is a choice, not a requirement - and is tightly controlled.  The upper ranks of society are never seen in the galaxy at large.  

 

Peggy knows about Whitney Frost because every Porthi knows about Whitney Frost.  She’s infamous.  It was a huge scandal, a blight on the Empire.  Frost wasn’t a Princess - that the term isn’t even used in the Empire.  Frost was the third daughter of a run of the mill Baroness.  And the fact that she left the Empire, and allowed herself to be sold at auction by Tivan, caused ripples across all of Porth.

 

And yet, Frost’s scandal is nothing compared to the uproar Peggy must have caused.  She doesn’t know for sure.  She didn’t stick around long enough to find out.  But she can imagine how ashamed her brother must be.  She says a silent prayer of thanks that her grandmother wasn’t alive to see what a mess she made of things.

 

Peggy pulls her sweater tighter around herself, heading for the mechanical room.  The one good thing about the Empire being so insular is that gossip doesn’t tend to make it into Alliance space.  The downside is that, as an exile, it’s nearly impossible for her to get any word about loved ones still in the Empire.

 

A Porthi outside the Empire is a lost soul.  To die out of sight of Porthi Prime is to be cursed to wander forever, never finding peace in the afterlife.  Swayback males are the only Porthi who ever willingly leave the Empire.  Even then, it’s not common. 

 

Sometimes the swaybacks think they can build a better life for themselves among the galaxy’s rabble.  Maybe they can.  Cap has carved out a role for himself on Fury’s crew.  He’s respected and good at what he does, which mostly includes beating the hell out of people.  It’s a necessary skillset.  It pays well.  And he’s afforded more respect than he’d ever find in the Empire.

 

Peggy occasionally tries to gauge Cap on his own merits, but she finds it nearly impossible.  He is a Porthi who has left the Empire.  He’s an exile.  It makes no difference that she’s in the same boat herself.  When she looks at him, she’s reminded that he shouldn’t be allowed to breath the same air as her.  

 

It is not done.

 

Oh, how far she has fallen.

 

* * *

 

Peggy finds Howard in the mechanical room.  He’s dismantling something that looks rather vital with his usual lack of concern or care.  

 

“Marge!” he says, his face lighting up as he offers her a seat.

 

“Howard,” she replies with a tight smile.

 

He asks for a rundown of the evening’s activities.  She brings him up to speed, excluding the bit about showing her mark to the would-be customer.  She’s still not sure what madness possessed her to do that.  It was stupid.  Provocative.  Things she thought herself done with years ago.

 

“The outfit sounds lovely,” Howard says.  “Maybe you could show me later?”

 

“Afraid not,” Peggy replies, frowning.  

 

Howard is an incorrigible flirt, but he’s mostly harmless.  And he’s one of her few friends in this new life.  He’s the one who suggested her to Fury.  Peggy owes Howard a lot.  She was in a bad spot and he helped her out, without expecting anything in return.  

 

* * *

 

It’s late when Peggy finally makes her way back to her bunk.  As she passes, she catches sight of Jack sleeping in his bunk.  She’s not sure about Jack.  He’s handsome and charming enough.  He watches her.  A lot.  She’s not sure, yet, what to make of that.

 

Climbing into her own bunk, Peggy pulls the curtain across, giving her as much privacy as is possible.  In the dim dark, she holds her arm.  It aches, despite the pain pill she took.  

 

She could have died tonight.

 

She  _ would _ have died tonight.

 

If she had died, she would have been one of those lost souls, condemned to forever wander.  Would that be any different from how she lives her life now?  She doesn’t even know.

 

**END CHAPTER**


	2. Chapter 2

A week after the job at Ferris’s place, the crew docks at Persephone.  Fury has business here and he takes Hill with him.  It leaves the rest of them with a night of shore leave.  It sounds more enjoyable than it is for Peggy.  She’s spent almost all of her time in Alliance space in the core worlds.  These little ports on the outer rim have rules all their own, and she’s still learning them.

 

Peggy would just as soon stay on the ship, like Cho, but Howard drags her along.  The rest of the crew head for a tavern called The Ailing Wench, which sounds bloody awful.  At first, she thought it was a pun on the word ale.  But it’s not.  The actuality of the place is even worse than Peggy imagined.  But they all crowd into a booth in the corner and the liquor flows freely.

 

Peggy spends most of the night fending off Howard’s half hearted advances.  He finally gives up and finds some professional companionship.  It’s late and there’s a barmaid perched in Bucky’s lap.  Jack and Natasha are taking turns insulting one another, which Peggy suspects may be their foreplay.

 

There’s another barmaid, a tiny little blonde thing who wouldn’t even be old enough to enter a bar if they were on a core world, sitting in the chair next to Cap.  She is literally hanging onto his arm. Admittedly, it’s an impressive arm.  She seems far more impressed with him than he is with her, which Peggy finds marginally reassuring.  For all his faults, at least he isn’t a child predator.

 

Bucky kisses the girl in his lap and then breaks off, turning to Natasha.  “So are Porthi really that good in the sack?”

 

“How the hell would I know, Barnes?” Natasha groans.  “I’ve never nailed one.”

 

Peggy files that away, though she’s not sure what it means.  Either that Natasha hasn’t had sex with Cap, or that she doesn’t believe he’s really Porthi.  As for Barnes’ question itself, Peggy has to stifle a groan.  The absurdity of the claim that Porthi are capable of inherently phenomenal sex never fails to irritate her.  

 

Peggy spent years as a well compensated companion in the core worlds.  It was a trade and she plied it well.  She knows how to please a partner, and how to please herself.  She knows that sex is inherently better if both parties desire one another.  She also knows that, in the absence of true desire, any number of pharmaceutical remedies can be used simulate desire.  In short, Peggy Carter is very good in bed and very proficient in the art of seduction.  

 

But even Peggy knows she doesn’t contain some mystical energy simply by virtue of being Porthi.  As far as she knows, none of her non-Porthi partners ever had any reason to think she was anything other than a particularly skilled companion.

 

“But half a  _ billion _ credits,” Bucky says.

 

Cap rolls his eyes and Jack stifles a groan.

 

“Come on, baby,” the girl in Bucky’s lap says, “I’ll make you very happy for a lot less than that.”

 

* * *

 

It’s two weeks later, in the dead of the night when the blaring klaxons wake Peggy from a dead sleep.  They’re en route to deliver what should be a completely run of the mill cargo shipment.  Operative word being  _ should _ .  The crew is short, with Bucky, Cho and Jack all on leave.  They’re scheduled to be picked up tomorrow when they dock in Wyn.

 

“What the fuck was in that?” Fury bellows.

 

The cargo hold is a disaster.  There’s debris everywhere.  A few holes were punched in the outer shell and Howard and Natasha are doing their best to get repairs welded in place as fast as they can.

 

“Haven’t exactly had time to do a full rundown,” Howard bites back, his voice muffled by the welding visor.  “But we’re going to be in a hell of a lot worse shape if we don’t get that main repaired.  He motions to the ceiling.

 

Peggy looks up, one of the large pipes running across the top of the cargo hold is ruptured.  It carries water that the engines use as coolant.  Peggy runs for the ladder and then across the catwalk to the main.  Cap is there too, she’s not exactly sure where he came from.

 

Together, they survey the mangled pipe.  Shaking his head, Cap grabs it and starts twisting, bending the metal with his bare hands.  Scrambling down the ladder, Peggy sprints for Howard’s workshop.  She digs frantically through piles of junk before she finds the durasheeting she needs.

 

When she gets back to the catwalk, Cap has the two halves of the main fitted as close together as possible.  Peggy takes the backing off the durasheet and starts wrapping them around the main.  It’s not a long term fix, but it should be enough for them to limp to the nearest port.  She and Cap work together for what feels like hours, making the repair.

 

When it’s finally done, they both step back and assess the situation.  The repair is ugly, but it should hold.  Below, on the cargo hold’s floor, Howard and Natasha are almost finished with the welds.

 

There’s still water pouring out of one of the vents in the ceiling.  Peggy looks at the grate and then at Cap.  “There’s another rupture.”

 

He nods, reaching up and pulling off the grate to peer inside.  Peggy grabs a flashlight.  Sure enough, there’s another rupture.  Not as bad as the main, but it’s a problem.  Cap climbs up, standing on the catwalk railing, but he can’t reach far enough inside the duct to fix the rupture.  He climbs back down, looking up at the vent.

 

Peggy grabs the durasheet and flashlight, turning to him.  “Give me a boost.”

 

He looks at her, but nods, cupping his hands together.  She braces one hand on his shoulder, putting her foot in his hands and he lifts her up.  It takes some contorting, but she scrambles up into the vent.  It’s incredibly uncomfortable.  There’s barely enough room to breathe.  She has the flashlight clutched in her teeth while she struggles with the durasheet.  After what feels like an hour, she finishes the repair.

 

“Are you down there?” she yells.  Her voice is incredibly loud, echoing painfully inside the metal ductwork.

 

“Yes.” 

 

She hopes to hell he is, because she can’t see a damn thing and there’s no way she can catch herself.  She wiggles down the vent, aided slightly by the fact that she’s now soaked to the bone.

 

She maneuvers as far as she can down the vent, but there’s a point where she has to let go.  She’s weightless for a moment, falling through space, but then he’s there.  It’s far less painful than the last time he caught her.  His hands rest lightly at her hips and he sets her gently on the catwalk.

 

Taking the flashlight from her, he shines it up into the vent, surveying the repair.  He nods, looking vaguely impressed.  “Not bad.”

 

She glares at him, wiping wet hair back out of her face.  He turns away, heading down to the cargo hold floor.  She waits a few beats and then follows.  

 

Howard is giving Fury a rundown on how the explosion happened.  Peggy’s fairly sure he’s omitting the part where it was probably his fault.  Fury’s irritated, but he turns away.  Everyone else disbands.

 

Minutes later, Peggy ends up in the galley, passing Natasha on her way in.  Natasha looks like hell.  Her long red hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail and there are dark smudges under her eyes.

 

“Beware the coffee, Marge,” Natasha says, giving her a meaningful look.

 

Peggy enters the galley and finds Cap standing next to the coffee pot.  They look at each other for a long moment.  Peggy’s shivering, her teeth chattering from her sodden clothes.   Cap takes pity on her and pours a cup of coffee, handing it to her.

 

She accepts the mug, peering down into it.  Cautiously, she takes a drink.  The sense memory is incredible.  For a moment, she can’t move.  It tastes like  _ home _ .  She hasn’t had coffee like this since before she left the Empire.  She cups her hand around the mug and savors it.

 

She finally tips the mug to him.  “Not bad.”

 

He nods, sinking down into a barstool.  He braces his elbows on the counter as he looks across at her.  “The others don’t care for it.”

 

“Their loss,” Peggy says meaningfully.  She finishes the rest of the cup, feeling considerably warmer.

 

Silence reigns for long minutes, until Peggy can’t take it any longer.  She’s sick of the elephant in the room.  She says, “What kind of a name is Cap?  That’s not a Porthi name.”

 

He takes another drink.  “It’s not an Alliance name either,” he says blandly.  “It’s a rank.  Captain.”

 

She arches an eyebrow at him.  “You were in the wars?  I didn’t take you for an Alliance sympathizer.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

She nods, unsurprised.  “A browncoat.  You fought against the Alliance.”

 

He nods.  “Fury was our commander.  Me, Bucky, Natasha, Hill.  We all fought together.”

 

They’re silent for several more minutes.

 

“My name is Steve,” he says.  He takes another drink.  “Steve Rogers.”

 

_ Steve _ .  It’s a common enough name, in both the Empire and the Alliance.  But Rogers is a Porthi name, like Carter.  Peggy has never heard either used outside of the Empire.

 

He takes a breath and says, “And Margaret isn’t a Porthi name either,  _ Peggy _ .”

 

She watches him, her expression guarded.  It’s been more than a decade since anyone called her Peggy.  She’s not at all certain she likes the way it sounds on his lips.  

 

She sets the empty cup down.  “Thank you for the coffee, Steve.”

 

* * *

 

“What would you be doing if it was Natasha here instead of me?” Peggy demands, glaring at Steve.  She’s not exactly sure when she started thinking of him as  _ Steve _ , rather than Cap, but she did.

 

He glares right back.  “If Natasha were here, we wouldn’t be stuck.”

 

Peggy crosses her arms over her chest.  Maybe he’s right.  Maybe he’s not.  Either way, it doesn’t matter.  They are stuck in the freezing cold dark.  She stalks to the far wall and sits down.  The floor of the mine shaft is hard packed earth, and well below freezing, so perhaps this wasn’t the greatest idea she’s ever had.  The cold seems to immediately seep into her bones.

 

There’s a blizzard raging outside and Hill won’t be able to extract them until it lets up.  Current estimate is that it’s at least ten hours away.  For the crew, it’s a moderate inconvenience.  For her and Steve, it’s going to be a long, cold night.

 

Steve occupies himself with finding extra candles, cursing under his breath the whole time.  Peggy’s not sure what to make of that.  He is typically so controlled, so quiet and professional.  She’s been aware, for a while, that her very presence has the ability to push his buttons.  It takes almost nothing for her to get a rise out of him, and vice versa.  She has no idea if it’s because they’re both Porthi, or just the volatile mix of their personalities.

 

Steve doesn’t have great success with finding candles.  Supplies are limited.  They’re going to have to ration them so they have enough light to make their way back to the surface once Hill gives them the go-ahead.  They were forced to retreat deeper into the mine to get away from the bitter, driving wind and snow. 

 

Peggy stares at his back, as he’s hunched over one of the broken lanterns, trying to extract the candle.  “I’m ...  _ sorry _ ,” she says.

 

He looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at her.

 

She sighs, looking away.  “I thought we had enough fuel to make it to the rendezvous point.”

 

“We didn’t,” he says dryly.

 

“I know that,” she snaps.  She huffs, leaning back against the wall.

 

Steve shakes his head.  He turns his body so he can look at her while he rummages through the lanterns.  “Why are you here?” 

 

“Because Natasha hurt her leg again,” Peggy says flatly.

 

Steve rolls his eyes.  “That’s not what I mean and you know it.  Why are you on this crew?  Why are you taking orders from Fury?  You’re a companion.  Even in the outer rim, you could be making three times what the entire crew makes in a month.”  

 

“Maybe I got tired of fucking men for money,” she says.

 

He meets her gaze and holds it.  “Better to fuck them over for money?”

 

She looks away.  “Something like that.”

 

He’s quiet, but she knows he’s watching her.  “I thought companions did more than just fuck.”

 

She looks at him.  She supposes it’s possible that he’s never contracted the services of a companion.  With his looks, he probably doesn’t need to.  Not that she likes his looks.  He’s too brawny for her.  But she can objectively admit that other women might find him attractive.

 

Peggy knows there are lots of reasons why a man would engage a companion rather than having a relationship.  It’s often not because he’s not attractive enough to get a date.  

 

“I’m trained in languages, the arts, and Alliance and Asgardian cultures,” she says.  “And every way in which one person can fuck another.”

 

He looks away, but doesn’t say anything.  She doesn’t get the sense that he condemns her former occupation.  Though he hurts people for money, so she’s not sure that’s the greatest vote of confidence she’s ever received.

 

He hands her a candle nub and some matches.  “Put those in your pocket.”

 

He gathers the rest up of the candles, and then moves over, sitting near her.  He checks the time and then shakes his head.  He picks up the lantern and blows out the candle, plunging them into darkness.

 

Peggy has no idea how much time has passed.  It’s not simply dark.  It’s a complete absence of light.  She’s not sure she’s ever experienced darkness so profound and it unsettles her deeply.  Little by little, she scoots closer to Steve, until they’re pressed side to side.  She has no desire to cuddle up next to him, but she needs to know there’s another person there, that she’s not alone in this freezing blackness.

 

Given how dark it is, she thinks that sleep should come, but it doesn’t.  The wind howls through the mine shaft, setting her teeth on edge.  And it’s so cold.  She gets progressively more chilled, first shivering, then her teeth chattering so hard she can barely think.  

 

Steve curses and strikes a match.  The flame is blinding and she squints as he lights the lantern, setting it aside.  She watches as he shifts and unbuttons his coat.  Without a word, he reaches over and unbuttons her coat.  Is he planning on letting her freeze to death?  She wants to fight him, but her body is slow and uncooperative with cold.  

 

He pulls the coat off of her and then picks her up, setting her in front of him between his splayed legs.  He pulls her back against his chest and wraps his coat around both of them, and then covers them with her coat.  Then he reaches over and blows out the lantern again.

 

Peggy waits, for him to do something, but he just sits there.  He sighs.  “I won’t bite,” he says flatly.  “Not even if you ask real nice.  You’re not my type.”

 

She snorts, but his words have the desired effect.  He doesn’t want her any more than she wants him.  She relaxes back against him.  It’s still cold.  She can’t feel her ass at all.  But the rest of her is considerably warmer.  Holy hell, he puts out heat.  Her teeth slowly stop chattering.

 

The dark is still unnerving.  She doesn’t like it.  On Porth, she never knew true darkness.  The binary star system and multiple moons meant night was never deeper than twilight on Londinium.  

 

“Do you like the dark?” she asks.

 

“Hate it.”

 

She sighs.  “Me too.”  She rests her head back against his shoulder.

 

His arm tightens around her middle.  “Why did you stop being a companion?”

 

In the dark, she stares at nothing.  “I got tired of men thinking they could own me, if even for a night.”

 

“Did something happen?”

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

He doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t volunteer.  She doesn’t owe him anything.  He’s Porthi, but that hardly entitles him to her story.  She shifts, trying to get comfortable and settles herself against him, pressing her nose against his neck.  It’s possible that he holds her the slightest bit tighter, but she could also be imagining that.

 

> _ She’s flying high, drunk on sweet wine and fleeting freedom.  She snuck away.  Away from her benevolent protector, if only for an evening.  She sees familiar faces, Daniel, Jason and Fred.  On the dancefloor, Michael spins Dottie.   _
> 
>  
> 
> _ People she hasn’t seen since she ran.   _
> 
>  
> 
> _ People she abandoned.  Because she was too weak.  Because she couldn’t endure.  She wasn’t strong enough. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ She turns, wanting to run.  Wanting to forget.  And then Steve is there.  He looks different, younger.  His hair is longer, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him seem boyish.  His face is clean shaven.  She thinks he should be less impressive here.  The sheer scale of Porth should put him into perspective.  Into his place.   _
> 
>  
> 
> _ But it doesn’t.   _
> 
>  
> 
> _ He seems relieved to see her.  He crosses the room and pulls her to him, with a casual possessiveness that does not exist between them.  He smiles down at her.  “You owe me a dance.” _
> 
>  
> 
> _ In the dream, her heart beats faster.  She smiles up at him.  “The war is over, Steve.  We can go home.  Imagine it.” _
> 
>  
> 
> _ He leans in close, his breath warm against her ear.  “I don’t need to imagine.  I found my home.” _
> 
>  
> 
> _ She kisses him, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.  The right partner.  Her partner. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ The dream shifts.  A jumble of places, half remembered or completely imagined.  A long hallway and a lonely walk.  Loss, so profound it tears at her.  Her grandmother’s proud features, cast in gray and unmoving.   _
> 
>  
> 
> _ And then finally clouds, followed by ice.  So cold.  It’s so cold.  It’s -  _

 

“Come on,” Steve says.  He shakes her shoulder again.  “Come on, Peggy.  Stand up.”

 

Groggily, Peggy forces herself to her feet.  He has a lantern lit.  As soon as he’s sure she can stand on her own, he buttons up her coat and pulls the hood down around her face.  He grabs the lantern off the ground and starts up the mineshaft.  She trudges after him.  The blizzard hasn’t stopped completely, but it’s lessened enough that Hill and the scout ship are waiting for them.

 

END CHAPTER


	3. Chapter 3

Five more weeks and a dozen jobs down, all of them uneventful, several of them positively boring.  Pay is split based on seniority, so Peggy’s not exactly rolling in the credits.  But it’s enough to live without having to raid her reserves.  Fury takes a cut of their checks for room and board, but it’s not exorbitant, not like the guild houses when she was a girl.  She can still sock credits away.

 

Natasha finally got the go-ahead from Cho, again, and is back on regular rotation.  This shifts Peggy into the weird role of being not quite a femme fatale and not quite the muscle.  She finally figures out she’s a fairly decent thief, though she doesn’t particularly like it.  It’s the one role on the crew that isn’t filled, so she takes it, and does her best.  The other option is to be a companion again, and she doesn’t want that.

 

Peggy gets paired with Jack a lot.  On another crew, he’d probably be the muscle, but here he’s decidedly not.  He’s a talker.  Bucky’s a talker too, but Bucky’s got a better aim and he’s quicker with a knife.  So if there’s a job that involves lying through their teeth and stealing things, it’s generally up to Peggy and Jack to make it happen.  It works well for the most part.  They make a good team.  Jack tends to gravitate toward her on missions anyway, so they have a rapport.

 

They’re on one of those jobs when everything goes south in a big way.

 

The crew was contracted for a big hit.  A payroll delivery en route.  High risk, high reward, but skirting dangerously close to the core worlds.  Fury isn’t taking any unnecessary chances.  The crew is tight.  Natasha, Steve, Bucky and Hill.  They run it down time and time again in the days leading up to the job.

 

At the last minute, another job comes in.  It’s small.  A grab and dash on a piece of heirloom jewelry with more sentimental than monetary value.  It’s something Peggy and Jack can handle easily.  Fury doesn’t like having his attention split, but the smaller job is a no brainer and he’d rather be making money than having two of his crew sitting on their asses.

 

Peggy gets the jewelry they’re after, but Jack isn’t talking fast enough to get them out of the little basement shop.  The old guy behind the register disappears, replaced by four hulking men.  Peggy knows it was a setup.

 

Jack looks at her.  “Run,” he says.  “Find a way out.  There’s a window in the back.”  Two of the mercs grab Jack, holding him while a third advances on him with a knife.

 

Peggy doesn’t run.  She throws a punch, rather than watching Jack get stabbed.  It’s a distraction, but not enough.  One of the guys grabs Jack around the throat, choking him until he goes limp.  Peggy watches Jack drop to the floor, having no idea if he’s dead or alive.  

 

The smallest of the mercs, the leader, advances on her.  “Come on, Princess,” he coos.  “Let’s do this easy.  There are people who are very excited to see you in Londinium.”

 

Peggy’s blood runs cold.  This isn’t a random hit.   _ She _ was targeted.

 

“You’re gonna make us a mint,” the guy says.  He has zip ties in his hand.  Peggy looks around the room frantically.  There’s only one door and it’s on the other side of the four mercs.

 

The guy grabs Peggy and she goes limp.  He clutches at her, trying to hold her upright.  Then she springs up, catching him under the jaw with her fist, snapping his head back.  She grabs his face, digging at his eyes with her thumbs.  He slashes out with a knife and she pulls her hand up to protect her face.  The blade slices her right palm open.

 

Before she can do anything else, something cracks her across the back of the head.  She sees stars, crumpling to the floor.  She is only vaguely aware that they’re zip tieing her hands and feet together.  One of them tugs at her shirt, ripping the material to bare her right shoulder.  

 

“What the hell are you doing?” the first merc hisses.  “The goods are supposed to be pristine.”

 

“Pristine,” the other merc scoffs.  “She’s a whore.”  A cool liquid is wiped across her shoulder.  The merc whistles.  He takes a flashlight out of his pocket, shining it on her mark.  “Well, I’ll be damned.” 

 

“Holy shit,” the other says.  “Is that what I think it is?”

 

The second one chuckles darkly.  “Maybe we tell him we never found ‘er.  Maybe we make our own arrangements with the Collector.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” the first one says.  “We’d never live long enough to spend a single credit.”

 

Peggy manages to get one eye open and she sees Steve coming up behind the mercs.  He takes out two of them with a knife before they even realize he’s there.  The third, he slams face first into the cinderblock wall so hard it shatters two of the blocks.

 

The final guy, the leader, has enough time to round on Steve.  The merc swipes out with the knife, slashing Steve’s upper arm.  Steve pauses, looking at the cut and then grabs around the merc by the throat, slamming him to the ground and pinning him to the floor.  

 

“Who sent you?” Steve demands.  With his free hand, he reaches over and cuts Peggy’s bonds.  He yanks her shirt up, covering her shoulder.

 

The guy is scared of Steve, and of death.  But he’s more scared of whoever hired him, which solidifies Peggy’s suspicions over who ordered the job.  He doesn’t talk.  Even when Steve starts to use the knife.  

 

Steve doesn’t drag it out.  The guy isn’t going to crack.  But Steve makes sure the merc can’t ever tell anyone what he found.  

 

Using the comm, Steve calls for backup.  He checks Peggy for wounds, prodding gently at the back of her head, which has her whimpering.  Expression tight, he gently gathers her in his arms, careful not to jostle her too much, while he waits for backup.  Peggy lays with her head against his right shoulder.  She looks at his left arm, the one with the cut.  It looks deep and it’s still bleeding a lot.  She reaches over and presses her palm to it, quickly causing her to hiss between her teeth.  She forgot about the gash on her palm.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Steve says quietly.  Peggy keeps her hand pressed to the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

 

Eventually Bucky and Natasha arrive.  They check on Jack, who is still breathing, though just barely.  Steve tries to help Peggy stand, but she’s woozy and nearly passes out.  

 

Gently, he scoops her into his arms again.  The last thing she remembers is him arranging her against his body so that her shoulder isn’t visible.

 

* * *

 

Steve lays Peggy down carefully on the exam table in the infirmary.

 

“What happened?” Cho asks, leaning over Peggy, forcing her eyes open.

 

“Hit in the head,” Steve says.  “And a knife wound on her hand.”

 

Cho nods and goes to the back room for supplies.  As soon as Steve’s sure Cho is out of sight, he rolls Peggy slightly onto her side.  Under the harsh exam lights, the mark is impossible to miss.  He’s never seen one up close before.  Until he got the unintentional glance at it when Peggy flashed it to the john at Ferris’s place, he’d never seen one in real life.  

 

Porthi nobility marks are often imitated.  As Natasha alluded to weeks ago, rarity has its own allure.

 

Many bits and pieces of Porthi culture are mimicked in Alliance space.  To varying degrees of accuracy.  Porthi marks, in particular, are a touch that seem to have captured the public’s imagination.  Steve has seen absurd interpretations on everyone from schoolgirls to assassins.  Typically they’re variations on Whitney Frost’s mark, a red skull with tentacles.  Some of the attempts Steve has seen aren’t bad.  Truthfully, Frost’s wasn’t that impressive.

 

But Peggy’s mark ...

 

The concentric circles alternate, red, silvery white, red.  The star at the center is blue.  It’s all refined linework, abstract, not a cartoonish picture.  That, in itself, would set it apart from Frost’s mark, but the pigments are what make it unmistakable.  They’re found only on Porth and they can be used only by the Carter family.  Under the examination lights, the colors glow and shift like tongues of flame beneath her skin.  

 

Most Porthi nobility are marked, but  _ this _ mark, this one is special.  This is the mark reserved for the heir to the Empire.  Even if she doesn’t seem to want that title.

 

Steve grabs a tube of synthskin off the shelf and carefully smooths it over Peggy’s shoulder, hiding the mark.  He settles her onto her back just as Cho returns.

 

Cho has a penlight this time and shines it in Peggy’s eyes.  Peggy groans, screwing her eyes tightly shut.  She reaches out, fisting her left hand in the material of Steve’s shirt.

 

Cho runs a handheld scanner around Peggy’s head and frowns.  “A concussion,” she says.  “Not serious, but she’ll have a hell of a headache for a couple of days.”  She examines Peggy’s right palm, cleaning the wound and closing it with steristrips.  

 

“Doc!” Bucky calls. “We need you out here.”

 

Cho heads for the galley, most likely to assess Jack.  Steve hopes Jack’s dead, but Steve suspects he’s not that lucky.

 

Slowly, Peggy opens an eye.  She glances up at Steve, glaring, irritated that he’s in her personal space.  Typical.  He watches her, his expression blank, waiting for her to realize that she’s the one clinging to him.  He sees when it hits her.  Her eyes go wide and she releases him immediately, like it burned her to touch him.  

 

He tucks that moment away, for those times when he second guesses his decision to turn his back on her Empire.

 

“It was an idiot move, flashing your mark to that john,” he says flatly.  “Those mercs would have sold you to the highest bidder.  And if the crew figures out who you are, you’ll need to watch your back here too.”

 

“Is that a threat?” she bites out.

 

He meets her gaze, his expression placid.  “Just a fact,” he says.  “Half a billion credits is a lot of money.  It might make any of them think twice about their loyalty to a fellow crew member.  Especially to one so new.”

 

“You and I both know I’m not Whitney Frost,” she says tightly.

 

He nods.  “Yeah,” he says quietly, his gaze meeting and holding her own.  “You’re worth a hell of a lot more than Whitney Frost, Princess.”

 

She bristles at the term, forcing herself into a sitting position despite the pain it must cause her.  She’s got backbone, he’ll give her that.  Though you don’t get to be a member of the Porthi ruling family by being weak.  Rumor is they eat the runts.

 

“How the hell does an exile swayback know who I am?” she demands.

 

He shrugs, frowning.  “I never said I was a swayback.  In fact, I bet I know more about you than you know about yourself.”

 

She scoffs.

 

“Your mark,” he says.  “Do you know what it is?”

 

She looks at him like he’s a slow child.  “Three circles and a star.”

 

He shakes his head and sighs.  “I don’t mean literally.  I mean symbolically.  Do you know what it is?”  

 

“A shield,” she says flatly.

 

“And do you know why it’s a shield?”  He can see the muscles in her jaw stand out as she glares at him.  She doesn’t know.  

 

He gives her a nasty smile.  “It’s a reminder from Aegea to your family to protect those too weak to protect themselves.  It’s your birthright and your calling.  The duty of the Empress to protect her subjects, despite how your grandmother perverted it.”

 

Her expression closes, but he has the impression that she’s shamed, and maybe a little afraid.  She hides it quickly, behind condescension and bitterness.  Taking a breath, she says, “You’ve been in Alliance space for what?  Fifteen?  Twenty years?  You’re too young to have had a vocation before you left the Empire.  Someone close to you was a scholar.  You listened to them.  Learned from them.  Who was it?  Your mother?  Your grandmother?”

 

He crosses his arms over his chest, watching her.  “My maternal grandmother was a royal scholar.”

 

She looks him up and down.  “And your father was a member of the underclass.”

 

“That’s what I hear,” he says tightly.

 

She narrows her eyes at him.  “What happened to your grandmother?”

 

His jaw tightens and he searches her features.  To his surprise, he sees no sadistic satisfaction.  Just curiosity and superiority.  “She died,” he says flatly.  Such a bland term for what truly happened.

 

He can see her eye twitch.  She looks away.  “So did mine.”

 

“I know,” he says in a conspiratorial tone.  “In bed with the Alliance ambassador.  Seems Diana was never one to go gentle into that good night.”

 

Peggy flushes and he knows the conversation is over.  No one is supposed to know the truth.  The official line is that Diana had a heart attack.  And she may well have.  But she had it in bed with an outsider thirty years her junior, who used the Empress’s favor to destroy so many lives.

 

Steve forces back his emotions.  This isn’t the time.  They aren’t going to hash out millennia of dysfunctional Porthi politics in Cho’s infirmary.  He nods to her shoulder.  “Keep it covered, especially on jobs.  Unless you want to end up in one of Tavin’s cages.”

 

“I don’t need your help,” she snaps.

 

He watches her for a long moment and then leans in closer to her.  To her credit, she doesn’t flinch.

 

“If I hadn’t saved your ass today,” he says, “you’d be halfway to the core system by now, bound for auction.  I know you’re a spoiled brat who has always had everything she wanted.  I’d hate to see what they’d do to you.”  He straightens back up and laughs bitterly.  “You’re welcome, Princess.”

 

* * *

 

Steve takes the roll of surgical tape and sets it on the edge of the sink.  He looks in the mirror, dabbing at the knife wound with a washcloth.  It’s still oozing sluggishly, but it will be fine in a few days.  One of the few upsides to having a deadbeat father who was genetically engineered to be physically resilient.

 

Steve pats the wound dry and then pieces the edges of ragged skin together with the surgical tape.  He flexes, making sure it will hold.  Glancing down, he looks at the washcloth.  It’s stained with blood.  His.  And hers.  

 

He understands that Peggy was trying to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.  But they’re playing a dangerous game and she doesn’t even realize.  For all her mind boggling privilege and influence, Peggy Carter doesn’t know the first thing about who she is and where she comes from.  She doesn’t appreciate any of it.

 

Shaking his head, he grabs the washcloth and throws it in the laundry chute.  There are no Porthi princesses.  Steve knows this.  But he does love the way the title makes Peggy bristle.  Fuck, she’s insufferable.  The way she looks down her nose at him, like he’s something she scraped off her shoe.

 

Though he’s noticed she does it less and less these days.  

 

Until he pushes her buttons.  

 

Then she’s right back up in her ivory tower, judging him from afar.  Deciding his fate on a whim, as has been done to so many others.  Like she’s any better than him.  

 

Peggy Carter is every bit as much of an exile right now as him.  He has no idea why she left the Empire.  She had everything she could ever want.  Unimaginable power and wealth, reaped from the suffering of her subjects.  Diana’s iron will shaped the modern Porth Empire.  And Peggy’s apple does not fall far from her grandmother’s poisoned tree.  

 

Peggy’s great-grandmother’s great-grandmother, Aegea Carter, was the first Empress of Porth.  Aegea’s family had ruled Porth’s largest, wealthiest kingdom for millennia.  She was born to lead.  But she wasn’t content to be one queen among many.  She was ruthless and brilliant.  She took what had been a star system of loosely affiliated sovereignties and forged them into the might of the Porth Empire.  She did it by viciously eliminating key competition.  Those left behind swore fealty to her, or they joined their dead sisters.

 

Despite having been ruled separately for most of history, Porth city-states shared language and traditions.  They were far more similar to each other than to anything outside the boundaries of Porth.  Once Aegea conquered the power structure, it was not difficult to consolidate the populace.

 

Porthi culture and society was always steeped in tradition and mysticism.  So Aegea couldn’t bind the Empire together by her will alone.  She was the Empress.  But she had a religious counterpart, known as the Council of Three.  There was a truce.  Aegea and the Council often worked together to strengthen the Empire.  But the relationship was not without its issues.  Aegea spilled a lot of blood.  And memories were long in Porth.

 

Under the rule of Aegea’s line, the Carters, Porth was prosperous.  But innovation stagnated.  Porthi have always been, by nature, insular.  Contact with other worlds was limited.  

 

But Peggy’s grandmother, Diana, knew Porth’s days were numbered if they continued on that path.  She knew that for the Empire to retain its might, they needed to expand, to prove to neighboring societies that they were a force to be feared.

 

Diana radically expanded the Empire, and wealth skyrocketed.  She conquered new territories and won several decisive battles against both the Alliance and Asgard.

 

Peggy’s mother was Diana’s only child.  She was killed when Peggy was an infant, leaving Peggy and her elder brother to be raised by Diana.  It had to have been a life of unbelievable opulence.  Peggy was Diana’s beloved granddaughter, her heir and legacy.

 

Steve assumes Peggy must have gotten bored, or had her ego somehow bruised.  Maybe she wanted adventure away from Porth.  He’s surprised she didn’t head for Asgard. In cultural terms, Asgard is much closer to Porth than the Alliance.  But maybe she wanted a change of pace.  He wonders if it all went horribly wrong for her.  

 

How the hell did the heir to the Empire end up as an out of work companion on the edge of Alliance space?  He takes some dark pleasure in how far she’s fallen.  He may be no better than trash, but she’s not far off either.

 

Steve doesn’t have any illusions about himself.  He’s a merc. It’s better than being a swayback in the far corners of the Porth Empire, little more than a slave.

 

Peggy’s a thief.  Maybe.  She doesn’t seem to be half bad at it.  But everyone on the crew knows her real talent is in being a companion.  He has no idea why she’s chosen not to use that skillset.  Or why she’s bouncing around the outer rim rather than living a comfortable life in the core worlds.  She’s running from something.  Or someone.

 

Steve tries not to care, but Peggy makes him so curious.  

 

Part of his curiosity is simply the fact that she’s Porthi.  She’s the only Porthi he’s seen since he left the Empire.  It turns out he’s capable of a staggering amount of melancholy while thinking of his home.  

 

He assumes that has to be part of his attraction to her.  He told her once that she wasn’t his type.  It was the biggest lie he’s ever spoken.  Peggy is _ exactly _ what he wants.  She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.  Her strength, her force of personality, all of it calls to him.  He wonders if he’s hard wired to want to swear fealty to her, as his family has done to hers for generations.  He won’t. He has enough self-control to prevent that.  He hopes.

 

Unlike Peggy, Steve knows where he comes from.  He knows Porthi legend and law better than he knows his own name.  He was raised on it.  On the intricacies of lore and tradition in the Empire.  So Peggy may have the luxury of being blissfully ignorant.  But Steve doesn’t.  

 

He knows what their shared dream heralds.  He knows how dangerous it is that she pressed her wounded hand to his wounded arm.  He has to be careful.  Because one of them is going to get fucked over in this, and he already knows it’s not going to be Peggy Carter.

 

This can’t happen.

 

* * *

 

A week later, they’re heading deeper into the core worlds, to check out a job Fury has a lead on.  Peggy is recovering and should be back to normal by the time they make port in a few days.  That’s good, considering Fury just told her he has a new opportunity and it involves her.  The whole crew has a meeting first thing in the morning and Peggy is relieved that she has time to catch some shuteye before then.

 

Peggy heads to her bunk and is getting ready to hop up when Steve grabs her elbow.  “Hold up.”

 

She stops and looks at him, waiting.  He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out something wrapped in an oilcloth.  He narrows his eyes at her for a moment, as if reconsidering, but then hands it to her.

 

Cautiously, she takes it.  From the heft and shape, she knows what it is and her heart beats faster.  Slowly, she unwraps the oilcloth, revealing the stiletto blade.  It’s small, barely longer than her hand and the metal is dark.  

 

“I trust you know how to use that,” he says.

 

Eyes still on the blade, she nods.  It’s the very first weapon she ever learned to use.  A blade so similar to this one.  This is a Porthi blade.  She doesn’t know where he got it, or how.  They’re rare, even in the Empire.  She looks up at him.  “I can’t accept this.”

 

“Those mercs who cornered you on the last job won’t be the end of it.  There’s a price on your head.  You need a way to protect yourself that’s like second nature,” he says firmly.

 

“I can take care of myself,” she says, trying to be firm without offending him.  She doesn’t want to start another fight.  She’s sick of fighting with him.  “But I can’t take this blade.”

 

He looks at her, arching an eyebrow.  “You think I’m more qualified to carry that blade?”

 

She looks at him incredulously.  No, of course not.  That much goes without saying. Males are never allowed to carry these blades.  The very idea is sacrilege to Peggy.

 

He smiles at her wryly.  “Thought so.”  He nods to her and turns back down the corridor, heading to his quarters.  He calls over his shoulder, “We’re even now, Princess.”

 

**END CHAPTER**


	4. Chapter 4

“And you’re sure the intel is solid?” Fury asks, looking around the galley table at the assembled crew.

 

“Yeah, boss,” Bucky says.  “The intel is solid.”

 

Fury looks over to Hill for confirmation and she nods, which seems to placate him.

 

Fury’s been gunshy since the clusterfuck that ended with both Jack and Peggy laid up for a week.  Not to mention the fact that the big job didn’t actually exist and everyone’s pay has been running short.

 

Fury wants to make money.  But he isn’t willing to lose more in the process.  “All right,” he says, “but the first whiff that this is another setup and I’m pulling the plug on the entire op.”

 

Everyone seems relieved and the group quickly disbands before Fury can reconsider.

 

* * *

 

Cordon’s Down, the location of their current job, is actually part of the core worlds - just barely.  This is as close as they’ve been to the heart of the Alliance since Peggy joined the crew.  It’s a moon, known as a retreat for wealthy Alliance citizens.  Peggy doesn’t like it, but even she can’t argue with the pay.  Tonight is simple recon.  The job itself is two days away.  It’s a rare opportunity, and unexpected.  

 

When Fury requested permission to dock for an unrelated cargo delivery, a patron by the name of Chadwick asked the resort to extend a request for Peggy’s services.  Per usual, she was listed as a companion on the travel manifest.  This wasn’t the first time such a request had been relayed.  

 

But this was the first time that the requestor was also a high value target with open contracts against him.  The op is straightforward.  Peggy will distract Chadwick while Natasha and Jack steal the files specified in the contract.  It should be quick in, quick out, moderate risk.  But for now, they need to get the lay of the land.

 

Peggy had to drag an outfit out of her footlocker for the evening.  It’s crimson silk that hugs her curves and shows a lot of leg.  It would look a lot better with the stilettos, but she perseveres.  She supposes she and Steve are even.  A pair of shoes for a Porthi blade.  Peggy knows she came out ahead on that.

 

She sits at the bar and makes conversation.  She’s good at it.  It’s second nature.  Pretending to be engaged while not listening to a word they say.  Pretending to be tipsy while not actually consuming any of the free drinks.

 

The rest of the crew mill around, coming and going.  Natasha was here earlier, but now she’s back at the ship.  She and Bucky are on the comm, performing for a captive audience who can’t tell them to fuck off.  Across the room, Peggy catches Steve’s eye and she knows he’s as irritated with the chatter as she is.

 

“Margaret.”

 

Peggy turns, smile firmly in place as she looks at Hugh Jones.   _Fuck_.  She turns off her comm.  “Mr. Jones,” she says cordially.  She knew this was a danger, being recognized by her former patrons.  Peggy isn’t trying to deny who she is.  But she prefers to fly under the radar these days.  She doesn’t like for anyone to know her schedule or location.

 

“Oh, come now, my dear,” he says, leaning in toward her, his hand coasting over her backside.  “There’s no need for two old friends to be so formal, now is there?”

 

“Of course not, Hugh,” she replies mildly.  She steps away from him.  “However, I’m with a date tonight.  You understand.”

 

He pouts and Peggy swallows back a wave of revulsion.  She spent years catering to this man and she is so very done with it.  There isn’t enough booze in the entire bar to make him palatable.  

 

“If your ... _date_ falls through,” Jones says, “be sure to let me know.  I’d love some company.  Had I known you’d be here, I would have made arrangements.”

 

“Of course,” she says.  She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek before turning and heading straight for Steve.  Jack is here too, somewhere, but Peggy doesn’t even consider going to him.  She needs someone whose very presence discourages poaching.  And for better or for worse, that someone is Steve.

 

Steve is standing in the shadows, one elbow propped casually against the bar.  Peggy tucks herself against his side, reaching up and clicking off his comm.  

 

“ _Old_ friend?” he asks, without bothering to look at her.

 

“Kiss me,” she says, her hand against his chest.

 

Steve frowns, still not looking at her.  “Saw him grab your ass.”  He finally looks down at her, expression slightly bored.  “Guess you didn’t like it?”

 

“ _Kiss me_ ,” she growls under her breath.  She knows he’s stalling on purpose, just to torture her.

 

He leans in toward her, smiling.  “Say please.”

 

She looks up at him, debating the merits of stabbing him and going back and taking Jones up on his offer.  Peggy Carter does not _ask_ a swayback to do anything.  She commands it.

 

But she can’t start a fight by telling Steve exactly what she thinks of his insolence.  Not tonight.  If she could simply leave, that would be one thing.  But her ass is the one that’s going to be on the line in two days.  She needs the intel.  She has to stay, and Jones needs to think she’s off limits.  

 

“ _Please_ ,” she growls.

 

Steve leans in closer and she hates the tingle of anticipation in her stomach.  Her hand fists in the material of his shirt and she’s aware of the way his chest moves as he breathes.  He wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her against his side.

 

She can smell him, a mix of that soap Fury buys in bulk, coffee, and something that reminds her of home.  She splays her palm against his chest, feeling the muscles shift under her touch.  She has never been one to go for brawn, but _fuck_ , she wants him.  More than she can ever remember wanting anyone.  She has goosebumps all over.

 

It’s like she’s poised at the edge of a cliff.  That tingling moment before she falls.   

 

At the first touch of his lips, she can’t breathe.  That’s all it is, a touch.  His lips are so soft, so supple against hers.  Everywhere they’re in contact feels electric.  He nips gently at her lips and she gasps, feeling light headed.  Her hand moves from his shirt to his jaw, pulling him closer.  He groans, his arm tightening around her waist.  She can feel the coiled tension in his body.

 

She pushes up on tiptoe against him.  He parts his lips and she touches her tongue to his.  She can hear and feel his breath catch, feel his fingertips bite into her hips.  He turns, so they’re chest to chest and she can feel him against her, hard already, from just a kiss.  Her insides go liquid and she whimpers.  There’s an answering growl from him and he deepens the kiss.  She wants him, right here, right now.  In a way that she has never wanted anyone.

 

With a gasp, Peggy twists away from him.  She doesn’t go far, half a step, but enough that they’re not touching anymore.  She’s breathing hard, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.  

 

For once Steve doesn’t look bored or irritated.  He looks dazed, slightly scared.  “What the fuck was that?” he asks in a near whisper.

 

Peggy shakes her head.  She doesn’t know.  She doesn’t want to know.  Fuck this job.  Fuck it all.  She stumbles away from him and makes a break for the door.

* * *

 

Peggy doesn’t talk to anyone when she returns to the ship.  Grabbing her blanket and pillow from her bunk, she heads to Howard’s shop.  He’s tinkering with something that looks absurdly dangerous.  If he intended to ask her why she’s there, the expression on her face warns him off.

 

Peggy sets up a spare hammock and climbs in, plugging into the comm and listening to the chatter.  She should be there, getting the intel first hand.  But she can’t.

 

She finally hears Steve on the comm, asking Bucky if she made it back.  He sounds like his usual self.  Bored, mildly irritated.  But even the sound of his voice has her shifting uncomfortably in the hammock.

 

 _Fuck_.  

 

This is a problem.  This is a _huge_ problem.  Peggy was a companion for years.  She honestly can’t remember the last time she lost herself in physical sensation.  The entire process of copulation has become so rote, such a choreographed dance, that she forgot it was even possible for it to feel that way.  

 

She’s more than a little scared that it never has felt that way - with anyone - _ever_.

 

Shit.  She doesn’t even _like_ Steve.  And he definitely doesn't like her.  At best, they tolerate each other’s presence.  

 

This can’t happen.  

 

There can’t be anything between them.  Least of all because they’re both a couple of exiles.  She’s Porthi nobility and he’s ... whatever the hell he is.  A swayback.  A scholar.  Some weird mix of the two.  Either way, he’s not her equal.

 

Together, they would be a disaster.

 

* * *

 

The timer cuts the water off and Peggy is standing in the cramped shower cubicle, still mostly asleep.  She got almost no rest last night.  Howard’s workshop was a never ending parade of alarms, explosions and mishaps.  He apparently doesn’t sleep at all.  He spent all night tinkering with things, knocking around boxes of spare parts, making an ungodly racket.

 

Still, she assumes it was preferable to spending the night in her own bunk, trying to talk herself out of tracking down Steve.  Or worse, him finding her.  Peggy has never, in her life, had a problem with self-control.  But she knows she has one now.

 

She quickly dries off and changes into clean clothes.  She balls her towel up under her arm and heads to her bunk to grab her boots.  In the corridor, she nearly collides with Steve.  She manages to stop herself short of touching him.  He’s breathing hard and his t-shirt is plastered to his body with sweat.  If she had to guess, she’d say that he’s spent the last several hours running.

 

He smells awful and he looks worse.  And she’s never wanted anyone as much as she wants him in that moment.

 

They stand there, awkwardly, looking at each other.  He steps closer to her and she forces herself to hold her ground.  He leans in and his breath puffs against her temple.  She can feel the heat radiating off his body.  

 

“Where were you last night?” he asks, his voice a bare growl.

 

She shivers at the sound of his voice and has to take a step back.  He came looking for her.   _Fuck_.  She knew it.  Shaking her head, she walks around him, careful not to touch him.  “None of your business.”

 

She knows he’s standing there, watching her.  She forces herself to walk.  She knows if she runs, he’ll give chase.  And _fuck,_ she wants him to chase her.

 

* * *

 

Peggy quickly shoves her feet into her boots, grabs her jacket and heads for the cargo hold.  She passes Jack on the way.  “What’re you doing right now?”

 

He shakes his head.  “Nothing, Marge.  Why?”

 

She grabs his arm and pulls him along.  On the off chance that they run into Jones again, Peggy would like a handy excuse to avoid him.  She’s also somewhat curious to see if this ... whatever it is with Steve, is actually something to do with him, or with her.

 

Jack falls into step with her, not exactly good natured, but accommodating.  She suspects he’s bored.  They head for one of the open air markets.  They buy breakfast from a vendor and find a table with good people watching.  It’s not crowded yet.  This place is known for its late nights, not its early mornings.

 

It is beautiful, though.  Clear blue skies and white sand beaches.  The trees and flowers are a riot of verdant greens and blooms in every color imaginable.  Peggy and Jack eat in silence.  Peggy keeps glancing over at Jack.  She rather enjoys him, as a person.  He’s a shit, but in a way that amuses her.  And he’s attractive.  Objectively, she finds him more attractive than Steve, more her type, with refined features and charm.

 

But looking at Jack, Peggy doesn’t feel even the tiniest hint of lust.  So her idea, that perhaps her attraction to Steve is some horrific byproduct of her own physiology, seems doomed.  This blinding lust isn’t transferrable.  It isn’t any attractive male who can make her feel this way.

 

It’s Steve.

 

She shifts in her chair, crossing her legs, cursing Steve’s very existence.  He’s Porthi.  That has to be it.  All those damned rumors of Porthi sexuality have turned out to be true.  Apparently it’s that both partners have to be Porthi.

 

What are the odds?  In all her years in Alliance space, Steve is the first other Porthi she’s ever met.  He’s socially at the bottom of the barrel.  She doesn’t like him.  And the feeling is completely mutual.  

 

And yet, they’re on this crew together, constantly in each other’s space, and now this.  

 

She has to find a way to manage this attraction.  Regardless of what she feels, having a sexual relationship with Steve Rogers is not an option.

 

* * *

 

Peggy is sitting at a table with Howard, in the same club she staked out last night.  It’s crowded, much more so than yesterday.  Tomorrow should prove to be more crowded yet.  That’s perfect.  It will make the job so much easier.  All she needs to do is keep Chadwick occupied while Jack and Natasha do their part.  Then Peggy needs to be able to seamlessly disappear into the crowd and make it back to the ship without being seen.  It should be easy enough.

 

Howard glances up, at someone behind Peggy’s left shoulder.  “Ah, there you are,” he says, pushing out of his chair.

 

Peggy turns around and sees Steve.  “What’s going on?” she asks, unhappy with how breathless she sounds.

 

“I have to get back to the ship, check on a problem Hill found with one of the engines,” Howard says.  “I called Cap to babysit you.”

 

Peggy glares at Howard, but his expression is guileless.  For once, he’s not actively trying to cause trouble.  He’s just clueless.  He leaves without another word.

 

Equally silent, Steve takes a seat next to her.  He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, looking around the room.  He’s actually dressed the part tonight.  These are, without a doubt, the nicest clothes she’s ever seen him in - which isn’t saying much.  She wonders where he got them.  His trousers are dark.  She knows she’s never seen him in anything but stained jeans, sweatpants or tactical gear.  The t-shirt is a plain white, but it’s new, with no holes or stains.  The brown leather jacket is simple, but it’s tailored to his impressive physique like a glove.  And he shaved.

 

Peggy is also dressed the part, in a navy blue halter dress which leaves almost her entire back bare.  It also puts a considerable amount of her cleavage on display.

 

They sit in silence for several minutes.  

 

“You want a drink?” he asks.

 

“Please.  Whiskey.  Neat.”

 

He walks up to the bar and orders.  Peggy sighs in relief.  She can’t avoid him.  She knows that.  But she doesn’t welcome having him in her personal space.  At least not until she finds a way to compartmentalize him.  Right now, he’s another problem she has to manage.

 

Her relief at Steve’s absence is short lived as Hugh Jones appears at her side.  “My dear,” he says, smiling.

 

Peggy forces a smile.  “Hugh.”

 

Jones stands there for several minutes, making idle chitchat, staring at her tits.  Peggy’s hand automatically goes to her thigh, where the stiletto is tucked into a garter.

 

Steve returns, brushing past Jones.  Steve insinuates himself directly between Peggy and Jones, setting the drink down in front of Peggy.

 

“Pardon me,” Jones says tightly, glaring at Steve.

 

“Fuck off,” Steve says flatly, turning, looking down at Jones.

 

Jones smiles grimly at him.  “I don’t think you understand, son.  Margaret and I have a long standing relationship.”

 

Steve plants his hand in the middle of Jones’ chest and forces him back a step.  “I don’t think you understand,” Steve says.  “She’s with me.  And I don’t pay for sex.  You should leave.  Now.”

 

It’s clear that Jones wants to say something, but he takes another look at Steve and decides against it.  He turns away in a huff.  Steve eventually resumes his seat.

 

“That was stupid,” Peggy says, though truthfully, she isn’t angry.  She’s thrilled that Jones is gone.

 

Steve glances over at her.  “You planning on rekindling your relationship?”

 

She snorts and takes a sip of the whiskey.  “Never.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, “so no big loss.”

 

“I could have handled it,” she says.

 

“My way was quicker.”

 

She can’t fault his logic.  

 

For hours, they sit and watch the crowd.  Steve buys another round, though neither of them are lit.  Just pleasantly buzzed.  The lights dim and the music gets louder.  More and more bodies fill the space.

 

He leans closer to her, draping his arm along the back of her chair.  “So, out of curiosity, how were you going to get rid of the creep?”

 

She looks at Steve and then shifts in her chair, moving her knees closer to him.  She hikes up the hem of her skirt until the garter and stiletto are visible.  He sits there, staring at it for a long time before looking away and cursing under his breath.  He takes his glass and downs the contents in one gulp.

 

He leans over, his fingers playing lightly over her bare back, his breath warm against her ear.  “I want to taste you.”

 

She shivers and her hand immediately fists in the material of his shirt, pulling him closer.  Under the table, his other hand is on her knee and quickly moving higher.

 

She arches away from him, forcing herself to release her grip on his shirt.  “We can’t.”

 

“The fuck we can’t,” he says.  He grabs the edge of her chair and pulls it closer.  He leans in again, pressing a kiss to the hollow under her ear.  

 

“ _Please_ ,” she says, though honestly, she has no idea what she’s asking for.  Him to stop?  Him to not stop?  It’s impossible to think.

 

His hand is on her thigh now and she’s halfway into his lap.  She looks out across the room.  There are several people watching them with open interest.  

 

Peggy growls, shaking her head.  “Not here.”  She forces her chair back and stands, pulling him with her.  Despite her determination to leave, the club is crowded and Steve makes a considerably better battering ram.  She lets him push his way through the crowd, dragging her in his wake, his hand clamped around her wrist.

 

They stumble out into the warm, humid night.  He looks back and forth and then drags her toward a secluded courtyard.  It’s dark and there is a lot of foliage.  He finds an alcove, hidden behind several enormous potted plants and pulls her inside.

 

He presses her back against the rough brick wall, kissing her with frantic need.  She meets his desire with her own, biting at his lips.  Their tongues tangle together.  She tugs his shirt free of his trousers so she can reach the skin beneath, her fingernails biting into the small of his back, pulling him closer.  He shivers, pushing against her.  He kisses along her jaw to her neck, sucking at the delicate skin.  She groans, her eyes rolling back in her head.  She moves her hands, gripping at his shoulders.  Shifting, she hooks one of her thighs around his, arching against him.

 

He says her name like a curse and captures her lips, kissing her again and again.  His hand touches her jaw lightly, his touch gentle.  It’s her turn to break the kiss, nipping along the hard edge of his jaw, fingernails digging into his shoulders as she levers herself against him, arching against him.  He grabs her ass, pulling her against him and she whimpers.

 

And then he’s gone, on his knees in front of her.  

 

His hands circle her ankles and he looks up at her as he slowly moves them upward.  She looks down at him, nodding, widening her stance.  He curses again, pressing his face against her abdomen as his hands cup her ass, find the waistband of her panties and pull them down, careful not to dislodge the garter and stiletto.

 

She steps out of the panties and he bunches up the front of her dress, motioning for her to hold it, which she does.  He takes her thigh, the one with the garter and stiletto and drapes it over his shoulder.  And then he’s there, licking, tasting, sucking.  Teasing her with tongue and fingers.  She whimpers, coming almost immediately, biting back a moan.  

 

He stops, staring up at her, eyes wide with wonder.  “ _Fucking hell_.”  He touches her again, lightly at first, and then firmer.  She fists her hand in his hair, guiding him, showing him where to touch and how hard.  She reaches another shivering peak before she pushes him away, needing space.

 

She sags against the wall, watching him.  His jacket is gone.  He watches her as he wipes his face with the back of his hand.  The predatory look in his eyes is clear and for a moment, she wants to run.  From him.  From every bit of desire and emotion she feels toward him.

 

But she wants him.

 

Far more than she wants to be free of him.

 

She pushes off the wall.  He stays where he is, on his knees, watching her.  She closes the distance between them and sets her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back.  He complies with her wishes, laying back on the brick patio.  She follows him down, straddling him.  She braces her hands on the ground on either side of his head and leans down, capturing his lips, tasting herself on him.

 

His hands immediately find the ties of her halter top and pull them loose.  He cups her breasts gently and she arches into his touch, moaning against his mouth.  She fumbles with the fly of his trousers.  “Help me,” she says, around her bite on his lower lip.

 

He grabs the material and shoves it down his hips.  She takes him in hand, stroking him and his breath catches.  With little preamble, she slides down onto him until he’s seated to the hilt.  His breath hisses between his teeth.  She sits there, looking down at him, feeling him inside her.  It feels right.  In a way she doesn’t understand.

 

He’s breathing hard, like he’s run a race and she knows that he wants her to move.  So she does.  But slowly.  She’s still half mad with lust.  But not so far gone that she can’t think.  She wasn’t one of the highest paid companions in Londinium for nothing.  She knows how to fuck.  

 

She teases him with her body and her words.  She brings him to the very edge of release, before backing him off time and time again.  It isn’t until they’re both covered in sweat, lost in the madness, that she finally gives him what he wants.  The fact that she finds her own release in the process is unexpected, but not unwelcome.

 

She pushes herself up and looks down at him, brushing her hair back out of her eyes.  He watches her mutely.  

 

“ _Mine_ ,” she says, nearly growling it at him.

 

He’s perfectly still for a moment and then he gives a single, sharp nod.  “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

Peggy restores herself as much as possible, but it’s still pretty grim.  They look like they just fucked in an alley.  They can’t go back to the club like this.  Instead, they circle the building, doing more recon.  They find the basement access and scope out the exits and stairwells.  

 

Steve seems to be taking any and all opportunities to brush up against her.  His hand keeps finding its way to her ass.  Or her thigh, tracing the outline of the stiletto through her dress.  She wants to be irritated, but truthfully, she wants him again.  How is that even possible?

 

When she’s certain they’ve learned as much as they can from the layout, she pulls him into a storage room.  He takes direction far better than she would have imagined, and with far more enthusiasm.  It’s clear that he wants her every bit as much as she wants him.  

 

She thinks that should make her feel better, but it just terrifies her.

 

* * *

 

They finally make their way back to the ship.  Peggy is careful to maintain a physical distance.  She doesn’t know if it helps or not.  She still wants him.

 

Natasha is in the cargo hold when they arrive and she arches an eyebrow at them, but doesn’t say anything.  Peggy heads to her bunk and Steve follows.  Luckily, everyone else is still out.

 

She shakes her head.  “Tomorrow’s the job,” she says.  “I have to sleep.”

 

He looks at her for a long moment and then nods.  “Let me give you a kiss goodnight.  To help you sleep.”

 

Half an hour later, her thighs finally fall away from his shoulders as she stares blindly at the bottom of the upper bunk, boneless and exhausted.  He crawls up her body and kisses her deeply, his face damp.  “Sleep tight, Peggy.”

 

* * *

 

To her own surprise, Peggy does sleep well.  Which is good.  Fury has them all up at the crack of dawn, going over the plan yet again.  It takes several hours to get everything mapped out and put contingency plans in place.  Peggy spends most of the meeting avoiding making eye contact with Steve.

 

She knows he was never thrilled with this op.  And especially in light of what happened last night, she knows he does not want her playing companion to some target.  Which is too bad, because that’s what’s happening.

 

Peggy avoids Steve for the afternoon.  She runs things down with Natasha and Jack.  Steve and Bucky don’t have much to do on the op, if everything goes to plan.  They’re muscle, and this is a finesse job.

 

Once everything is set for the evening, Peggy works with Howard on a better design to keep the stiletto concealed.  She’s pretty sure he spends way more time taking measurements than is actually necessary.  

 

It isn’t until Peggy is getting dressed that she realizes she has another problem.  The dress is tight and black.  Most of it is sheer lace.  Her back is almost completely bare again.  And therein lies the problem.  She grabs the tube of synthskin and knocks on the hatch to Steve’s quarters.

 

He pulls the door open.  He’s standing there in a stained tanktop and a pair of sweatpants.  He steps aside so she can enter and then closes the hatch after her.  It’s a small room, perhaps twenty feet by fifteen feet, though she suspects the volume of crap he has makes it feel smaller.

 

His quarters, unsurprisingly, are a disaster.  He’s a slob.  She’s lived with him day in and day out long enough to have suspected this.  “What’re you doing in here?” she asks warily.  

 

He steps close to her and braces his hands against the wall on either side of her head.  He leans in and presses a kiss to the side of her neck, making her shiver.  “Thinking about you and jerking off,” he says blandly.

 

Heat pools low in her belly at his words.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

 

He nips at the edge of her jaw.  “S’okay.”

 

“Still,” she says, her voice low, “maybe you should finish.”  He pulls back and looks at her, his expression predatory, his jaw clenched.  She leans in and presses a kiss to the edge of his jaw, feeling the taut muscles.  “Show me.”

 

She pushes at his chest, guiding him to walk backwards until he reaches his bed.  He sits down and then stretches out.  She joins him, laying next to him on her side.

 

He looks at her and she tucks a finger in the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging until he obliges and shoves them down.  He’s not wearing shorts and he’s already hard.  She looks at him and licks her lips, earning her a groan from him as his head falls back against the pillow, his eyes screwing shut.

 

“Show me, Steve,” she whispers.  “I want to see.”

 

He gives her a sharp nod.  He opens his eyes, watching her as his hand circles his cock, gripping himself lightly.  He gives several long strokes, root to tip.  She can hear his breath coming shorter.

 

She tugs his tanktop up, exposing his defined abs.  Leaning forward, she presses a kiss to the taut muscles, causing him to groan.  He starts to touch himself in earnest then, quick, short strokes.  

 

She reaches up behind her neck and releases the clasp on her dress.  She pulls the material down, exposing her breasts and he curses, leaning into her, capturing one of her nipples in his mouth as he strokes himself faster.  He sucks at her, biting down gently on her nipple, groaning.

 

She pulls away and pushes him flat on his back, batting away his hand as she takes him in her mouth.  He hisses through his teeth, his back arching as he comes for her, groaning her name.  

 

As he’s recovering, she starts to put her dress to rights.  Immediately he’s rolling toward her, shaking his head.  “Nope.”  He pulls her close, his mouth finding her nipple again as his free hand works its way under her skirt.  He shoves her panties aside, rubbing her roughly.  She yelps, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.   _Fuck_.  She’s so wet.  His thumb circles her clit as three of his fingers enter her.  She groans, clamping her thighs around his hand as she comes.

 

He holds her until the storm passes and then flops back on the bed.  “Fucking hell, Peggy.”

 

* * *

 

Several minutes later, she finally has her dress sorted.  He’s once again clothed, albeit spectacularly unfashionably.  He drags a hand through his hair and looks over at her.  “Not that I don’t appreciate the visit, but I suspect that’s not why you stopped by.”

 

She gives him a tight smile and hands him the tube of synthskin.  She points to her back and hears him curse.  It’s a mess.  A network of scratches, scrapes and bruises, courtesy of last night’s brick wall and industrial shelving unit.  She notices he doesn’t apologize.  She has the feeling he’s rather satisfied with himself.  But he does make sure everything is appropriately camouflaged.

 

She’s certain he’s finished, but his hand lingers, warm against her back.  

 

“How far are you planning on pushing tonight’s show?” he asks.

 

“As far as is required to get the job done.”

 

He looks away and doesn’t say anything, which, she supposes, is probably the best she could hope for.  It’s not like they’re going to make an exclusive commitment to one another.  It’s sex.  Great sex.  But still, just sex.  

 

She does understand the rub with tonight’s job.  She wouldn’t be glad to watch him with another woman, even if it was only for the op.

 

This situation is a disaster waiting to happen.

 

“I have to go,” she says, pushing herself off the bed and heading to the door.

 

**END CHAPTER**


	5. Chapter 5

Peggy doesn’t know the target, Calvin Chadwick.  Not even from the Londinium social scene.  She has no idea where he’s from, but she knows his type.  He’s attractive enough, wealthy enough, powerful enough, in whatever particular field he’s in.  He likes her.  She completes some image he has about himself.  And he looks at her the same way he would look at an expensive ship, or a piece of art.  A possession.  Something meant to impress.

 

Peggy plays her part.  It’s not like she isn’t adept at this.  She keeps Chadwick busy, distracted.  It’s apparent that he’s accustomed to companions.  He knows exactly how far he can push.  He knows how to skirt the line of acceptability, which makes the entire event infinitely more tiresome than it needs to be.

 

The club is at capacity and Chadwick keeps a possessive arm around her waist.  Peggy is listening intently to the comm.  So far, no word from Natasha and Jack that they have what they need from Chadwick’s rooms.  

 

“This is getting to be a bit much,” Chadwick says, leaning in close.  Peggy turns away before he can kiss her, hoping to seem casual, rather than purposeful.  She immediately knows she wasn’t successful.  She can feel him bristle.  His ego has been bruised and his arm at her waist tightens.  “Let’s head outside.”

 

“Oh, darling,” she coos, tracing one lacquered nail along the edge of his jaw.  “So soon?  But we just got here.”  She kisses him then, hoping to repair some of his ego, so that he doesn’t feel the imminent need to take her to his villa and remind her what he’s paid for.  The kiss leaves Peggy feeling vaguely nauseated, but it appears to do something for him.

 

Chadwick seems slightly mollified.  He buys her another drink, which she actually consumes.  Typically, she wouldn’t, but she’s beginning to think she may need liquid courage.  In her years in Londinium, she became very adept at faking every bit of an intimate encounter.  But she’s out of practice.  And her recent involvement with Steve hasn’t involved any faking at all.  Just the thought of him is enough to set her blood racing.  But Calvin Chadwick leaves her completely cold.  There isn’t the barest flicker of desire in her when she looks at him.

 

She manages to coax Chadwick into a dance, and then another drink.  But the night is wearing on and there’s still no word from Natasha and Jack.  Chadwick makes it clear that they’re leaving and Peggy agrees.  As they make their way down the hallway and out into an open courtyard with a pool, four bodyguards fall into step at a discrete distance.  

 

Fury knew about one bodyguard.  Not four.  Shit.

 

Peggy has a moment of panic.  She could handle Chadwick.  And she might even be able to distract Chadwick and a single bodyguard.  But not all five of them.  

 

Chadwick swipes his hand to unlock the villa’s front door and escorts her inside.  Peggy glances around, relieved that she doesn’t see any sign of Natasha or Jack.  But she has no idea if they got the files or not.  She turns back to Chadwick and goes quiet as all of the bodyguards crowd into the foyer too.

 

Peggy looks at Chadwick.  He smiles tightly.  “They need to make sure you’re not hiding anything,” he says evenly, though the threat is clear.

 

Peggy returns the dark smile.  “I don’t know where you think I could hide anything in this dress.”

 

“All the same,” he says and motions to one of the goons.  Peggy is careful to keep her expression neutral as he manhandles her.  He’s good, she’ll give him that.  If she were hiding anything, he would have found it.  She says a silent prayer of thanks that her interlude with Steve left her running so late that she didn’t have time to pick up the new garter from Howard.  Her stiletto is back in her bunk.  Luckily, the comm tech is tiny and goes unnoticed.

 

“Satisfied?” Peggy asks.

 

“Not quite, but soon,” Chadwick replies, smiling brightly.  He holds out his hand.  “This way.”

 

Thankfully, the bodyguards hang back.  Chadwick leads her through the villa’s sprawling living room.   She sees the safe, but again, has no idea if Jack and Natasha managed to get what they need out of it.  She’s glad that Chadwick doesn’t seem intent on checking on its contents.  

 

He leads her through a door and into the spacious bedroom.  The lights are dim, the windows all covered in heavy drapes.  There’s a small bar on the dresser and he pours them both another drink.  Peggy glances around the room and accepts the glass, smiling.  She takes a drink.  

 

That’s when she sees it.  The leather case.  She knows on sight that it’s one of Kalid’s designs.  He’s Londinium’s premier stockist for the discerning S&M enthusiast.  He caters to a very specific type of clientele.

 

Chadwick steps closer to the case and flips open the lid, revealing a variety of restraints and other items.  Peggy sets her glass down.  “I’m afraid that wasn’t included in our negotiations,” she says firmly.

 

He looks at her and laughs.  “Apologies, my dear,” he says, “but you’re not going to squeeze any more money out of me.  Not tonight.  I paid for this and I’m going to enjoy it.”

 

“I’m not asking for more money,” she says.  “I don’t participate in that scene.  Under any terms.  It’s a violation of our contract and voids the agreement in full.”

 

He blinks at her and smiles slowly.  She knows he has every intention of getting exactly what he wants.  He’s in for a rude surprise.  

 

Peggy turns toward the door, but when she tries to take a step, she stumbles, falling to her hands and knees.  She vainly tries to focus.  

 

Chadwick’s smiling face comes into her line of sight.  “See now,” he says, “there’s no need to bring up contracts and negotiations.”  He chuckles.  “Vernon told me how much I’d like you, and I have to say, he was right.  And after we’re done, I have some more people who want to meet you.”

 

Peggy tries to fight, but her body will not respond.  Chadwick drags her to the bed, tossing her down, positioning her like a ragdoll.  She stares blindly at the ceiling.  She can hear him rifling through the case.  He flits in and out of her line of vision, whistling.  She can see him attaching restraints to the bedframe, though thankfully he doesn’t truss her up.  Yet.

 

He leaves.  Peggy can hear a shower running.  Fighting herself every step of the way, she forces herself into a sitting position.  She’s weak, uncoordinated, but she knows her safety depends on fighting through the drug.  She’s been in this position once before and she swore it would never happen again.  She doesn’t bother trying to speak.  She knows her vocal cords won’t work at all.

 

She spent months, after that disastrous weekend with Vernon Masters, building up a limited tolerance to the powerful paralytic.  She isn’t immune to it.  But she has enough of a tolerance to retain limited gross motor function.  

 

She sees the crystal decanter on the dresser and forces herself to stand.  In lurching steps, she fights her way across the room, stumbling twice and falling painfully to her knees.  It seems to be getting the slightest bit easier to move.  And she has to keep moving.  Calvin Chadwick is not going to get what he wants.

 

She’s wearing the comm and the channel is open.  She knows someone heard what Chadwick said to her.  Someone will come ... eventually.  But Peggy can’t wait for a rescue.  When she reaches for the decanter, she can finally control her hands enough to grab it.  She manages to cross the room.  She leans heavily against the wall, next to the bathroom door, shaking and sweating profusely.  

 

The shower eventually stops and several minutes later, Chadwick walks into the bedroom.  He has a towel around his hips and another over his head.  She swings the decanter at his head as hard as she can, making solid contact.  The crystal shatters and he falls like a rock, sprawled boneless on the floor.  She falls too, embedding shards of crystal in her knees.

 

Then she hears Jack on the comm.  “ _ Clear _ .”

 

Peggy lays where she is, sprawled against Chadwick’s unconscious form.  She watches Natasha walk into the room and motions her to the case.  Natasha seems to understand exactly what’s going on and she finds the correct vial.  She shakes her head as she flicks her finger against the side of a syringe.  Then there’s a sharp jab in Peggy’s thigh.  It’s only moments later that Peggy can move again.  She forces herself into a sitting position.  Chadwick is facedown on the floor, bleeding from the back of his head.  

 

Jack walks into the bedroom.  Beyond, in the living room, Peggy can see the unconscious bodyguards.  At least two of them look to be dead.  “We’re good,” Jack says, “but we gotta move.  Now.”

 

Peggy nods and pushes herself to her feet, wincing at the pain in her knees.  Natasha helps her over to the window.  Peggy glances over her shoulder and sees Jack give Chadwick a swift kick to the head.  The three of them crawl out and then skirt along the back of the villa to the fence. 

 

Natasha bends down, carefully clipping an opening in the fencing material.  Peggy stands on her own, with Jack close by.  She starts to wobble and she reaches out to steady herself.  She clutches at the front of Jack’s shirt, using the leverage to hold herself upright.  But the material rips.

 

Peggy stands there, breathing hard, blinking.  Even in the dim light, she can see the brand by Jack’s clavicle.  It’s small, the size of an old Alliance credit.  But it’s unmistakeable.  Three concentric circles with a star in the middle.  The brand is old, the skin long healed.  Peggy knows this mark.  It’s the mark of her grandmother’s personal guard.  She thought they’d all been slaughtered.

 

Jack swallows thickly and looks away, head bowed deferentially.    
  


“Okay,” Natasha says, “let’s go.”  She squeezes through the opening in the fence.

 

Jack nods toward the opening.  “My lady.”

 

Peggy doesn’t respond.  She doesn’t know how to respond.  She lowers herself to her hands and knees and crawls through the opening.  Steve is there as soon as she’s through, pulling her to her feet, holding her against his body. 

 

Bucky slides behind the wheel of the transport truck and Natasha takes shotgun.  Jack jumps in back, glancing at Peggy and Steve.  

 

Steve scoops Peggy into his arms and climbs into the back of the truck.  He sits down, across from Jack.  Peggy doesn’t try to move out of Steve’s embrace and he doesn’t offer to let her go.  Jack seems to be concentrating very hard on not looking at them.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened?” Peggy demands, staring at Jack and Natasha.  Her voice is still low and shaky, her vocal cords not completely recovered from the paralytic.  The ship is well away from Cordon’s Down, headed for the outer rim on Fury’s order.  Peggy has a pounding headache.

 

“That asshole had three levels of security is what happened,” Jack says wearily.  It’s clear he’s already had this discussion with at least half the crew, probably while Cho was patching up Peggy’s knees.  Natasha, in particular, looks really angry.  Jack looks angry himself.

 

The long and the short of it is that it took Jack a good three times longer than his initial worst case estimate to get the files.  He and Natasha were still in the villa when Peggy and Chadwick arrived, which turned out for the best.  They heard what Chadwick said to her, and had a good idea of what he did.  They took care of the bodyguards while Peggy took care of Chadwick.  

 

“I changed my mind.  I don’t want to hear it,” Peggy finally says, cutting them off.  “I’m going to sleep.”

 

Slowly, she makes her way down the corridor to her bunk.  It’s still difficult to walk.  Before she can climb up, Steve’s there, looking at her with a guarded expression.  “My bed is more comfortable,” he says.  “Quieter too.”

 

She blinks at him.  “Probably not if you’re sleeping in it.”

 

He shrugs.  “Unlike Buck and Thompson, I don’t snore.”  He finally adds, “I changed the sheets.”

 

She turns without a word and heads for his quarters.  He grabs the pillow off her bunk and follows.

 

Steve doesn’t ask any questions, but she suspects he knows exactly what happened with Chadwick.  He’s angry, she knows what much.  But she also understands he’s not angry with her.  It’s an odd sensation.  She has no idea when the last time was that someone was outraged on her behalf.  She’s not entirely certain it’s ever happened.  

 

Peggy still doesn’t know what to think about Jack.  He’s Porthi, that much is a given.  And he’s a member of Diana’s, or rather,  _ Peggy’s, _ personal guard.  Peggy thought they had been wiped out of existence.  As with the bulk of the Porthi military, Diana’s personal guards were female.  But Stane’s purges were responsible for the deaths of so many powerful women.

 

Peggy sighs.  God, she’s tired.  She lays down on her side on Steve’s bed.  Mutely, he curls against her back, his arm across her hips, his nose pressed to the nape of her neck.

 

* * *

 

Peggy wakes, groaning.  She frowns at the pain in her knees and her head.  Steve is still in bed, propped up on pillows, sketching in a book.  She suspects he hasn’t slept at all.  He kept watch over her.  She isn’t sure how she feels about that.  He doesn’t have a brand like Jack, no sworn oath to protect her.  But he might as well.

 

Steve leans over and looks down at her for several long moments before kissing her.  She kisses him back.  For the first time, she isn’t immediately blinded with lust.  She’s in too much pain for that.  But she does want him.

 

He pulls back and she looks at him.  She licks her lips.  “You taste like coffee.”

 

He gives her a wry smile and hands her his cup.  She pushes herself into a sitting position and takes it gratefully.  

 

When she finishes the coffee, he ventures down to the galley to get her another cup.  She rakes a hand through her hair, looking around the room.  His quarters look cleaner than yesterday.  She’s not sure what to make of that.  Probably that he wants to get laid again.  

 

Peggy already knows she’ll undoubtedly oblige him, which is a bit of a revelation.  After everything with Chadwick, she would expect to be put off any kind of physical intimacy.  

 

But she wants Steve.  And it isn’t entirely physical.  She wants the reassurance she feels in his embrace.  She craves him in a way that scares her.

 

Peggy drinks the second cup of coffee and then manages a quick shower.  But by the time she’s dressed, her stamina is completely sapped.  Steve isn’t in his quarters when she returns.  She wonders if she should go back to her own bunk, but quickly decides against it.  She doesn’t want to see Jack.  She crawls into Steve’s bed and falls asleep. 

 

* * *

 

_ It’s another jumble.  Nonsense.  Disconnection.  But it seems normal, in the way such dreams seem normal. _

 

_ They’re in one of the formal ballrooms, in the midst of a party that never took place.  She’s dressed in a red, clinging dress and his eyes are riveted on her.   _

 

_ “I may even go dancing,” she says, arching an eyebrow at Steve. _

 

_ He looks her up and down.  “What’re you waiting on?” _

 

_ “The right partner.” _

 

When Peggy wakes, she knows she’s been out for many hours.  Steve is asleep next to her, rolled toward her, his entire body slack, dead to the world.  He looks rumpled and oddly vulnerable.  She scoots closer to him, kissing his cheek.  He sucks in a breath and grinds his teeth together, instinctively moving closer to her.  But he’s definitely not awake.

 

She pushes away from him, rolling onto her back.  The overheads are off in the room, but he has a tiny light that projects a starscape against the ceiling of his quarters.  It casts the entire room in a dim, blue light.  She blinks up at it and recognizes it immediately.  It’s the starscape as seen from Porth.

 

It’s comforting and also makes her sad.  She is reminded of his comment that he, too, hates the dark.  Without needing to ask, she knows that he always sleeps beneath the Porthi starscape.  

 

She’s not sure what to think of this connection she has to Steve.  She’s thought, for weeks now, that the push and pull with him had to do with the fact that they’re both Porthi.  Like their attraction was some unavoidable byproduct of their shared heritage.  But Jack is apparently Porthi as well, and Peggy doesn’t feel the slightest bit of connection with him.  She doesn’t dream of him.  She doesn’t want him.

 

Peggy flexes her knees experimentally.  They’re still a bit tender, but no longer raw and aching.  Steve grumbles in his sleep and rolls over against her, burrowing his face against her shoulder.  She wonders at the fact that the physical intimacy with him doesn’t seem odd to her.  Even as a companion, she was never in the habit of actually sleeping with any of her clients.  The realization does not make her feel any more settled about what’s going on between her and Steve.  

 

As quietly as she can, Peggy crawls over him and opens the hatch.  She walks down the corridor to the facilities.  She splashes her face with water and brushes her teeth.  She removes the bandages from her knees, inspecting them carefully.  They look much better.  The clock confirms that she was asleep for about twenty hours.  It’s early morning, but not the middle of the night.  Cho is already awake and re-wraps Peggy’s knees.

 

Peggy walks to the galley and considers making coffee.  The problem is that she isn’t exactly sure how to make Porthi coffee.  That’s Steve’s thing.  So she settles for a cup of the stuff the rest of the crew drinks.  She pours a mug and heads back to Steve’s quarters, crawling into bed next to him.  She gathers up extra pillows and sits there quietly, drinking the inferior coffee and scrolling through her datapad.  

 

At some point, Steve throws his arm around her hips.  Then he scoots closer.  One of his hands ventures under her shirt, tracing up her side.  His touch is familiar, but not demanding.  He’s patient, waiting to see what she will do.

 

Carefully, she sets the mug and the datapad on a shelf and burrows under the covers against him.  He kisses her languidly, slowly undressing both of them.  She groans at the feel of the naked length of his body pressed against her, skin to skin.

 

He scoots down, disappearing under the covers.  He’s mindful of her bandaged knees as he settles them over his shoulders, tasting her again.

 

Peggy eventually has to pull his hair to get him to stop, urging him back up her body.  She groans as he slides inside her, setting a quick, demanding rhythm.

 

* * *

 

Peggy showers and heads to her bunk for a change of clothes.  They’re on course to be in Yellowknife by evening, a rough little port well outside of Alliance concerns.  In fresh clothes, Peggy is heading to the galley when Fury stops her.  “A word.”

 

She follows him to the bridge.  It’s not exactly spacious.  Hill is already there, sitting in the pilot’s seat.  Several minutes later, Steve enters the room and looks around.  Peggy has the impression he isn’t exactly sure why he was summoned here either.

 

“We have a problem,” Fury says flatly.  “Two big ops have gone tits up in the last three weeks and the common denominator is Margaret.”

 

Peggy crosses her arms over her chest.

 

“Do you have anything to say?” Fury asks.

 

Peggy shrugs.  “You knew I had a reputation when you took me on.  It’s why you wanted me.  The status I bring.  In the last ten months, you’ve docked in twice as many ports as you would have without me on the manifest.  And while the job in Cordon’s Down didn’t go off without a hitch, it was successful.  We got the documents.  Everyone got paid.”

 

Fury frowns, but it’s obvious that he knows Peggy is right.  “You have a useful skillset,” Fury says.  “I didn’t expect you to come with a price on your head.”

 

“I can’t say I expected it either,” Peggy snaps.  “Cost of doing business.”

 

Fury looks at Hill.  “What do you think?”

 

She frowns.  “She’s right.  We’ve docked in more ports, been able to take more jobs with better ROI.  But she’s a big unknown.  The jobs that blew up were ones that should have been walks in the park.”  She sighs.  “If Margaret is willing to consider being a companion again - “

 

“Not happening,” Peggy says, cutting her off.

 

Hill shrugs.  “We make more money with her on board than without.  But it’s a risk that’s hard to quantify.”

 

Fury scows and looks at Steve.  “And you, Cap?  Where do you come down on this?”

 

Steve holds his hands up and shakes his head.  “I’m not weighing in on this.”

 

“What the hell does that mean?” Fury snaps.

 

“It means we slept together,” Peggy replies.

 

Fury looks from her to Steve and then rolls his eyes.  “Un _ fucking _ believable,” he mutters.  He scowls at Peggy.  “Fine,” he says, “you’re still on the crew.  But if you have any reason to believe there might be more to an op than the rest of us realize, you sure as hell better speak up.”

 

Peggy nods.

 

“Now fuck off, both of you,” Fury snaps.

 

* * *

 

Yellowknife is a shithole, but there’s a bar.  Rumor has it that Fury has a lady friend in port.  Everyone’s excited about that.  He’s been worse than usual lately.  Peggy can’t fault him for calling her on the recent problematic entanglements.  But she has no idea what she could have done to avoid them.  She took this job precisely to avoid those types of situations.

 

The thought of problematic entanglements invariably leaves her thinking of Steve.  This morning was more than just sex.  And that scares her.  Sex she can deal with.  Sex she can compartmentalize.  But the idea of it being something beyond that ... 

 

Peggy wants no part of a relationship.  In all her years as a companion, she has avoided ever being privately involved with anyone.  Every bit of physical affection and sexual gratification has been conducted under the auspices of a business agreement.

 

So this ...  _ whatever _ this is with Steve has to be reined in.  She can’t conduct her daily life feeling this madness she feels with him.

 

Peggy walks to the bar with Hill.  It’s a blustery night.  Yellowknife is little more than a few squat cinderblock buildings on a mostly barren moon.  Steve, Bucky, Natasha and Howard are all clustered around a table in a corner of the bar.  

 

Steve automatically shifts over, making space for Peggy between himself and Natasha.  Peggy takes a seat.  Steve rests his arm along the back of her chair.  It’s not possessive, exactly.  There’s no reason for him to be possessive.  But it feels obvious.  Peggy wants to be irritated about it.  But she’s not.

 

They drink for hours, but it’s clear that most of the crew plan to make a night of it.  Peggy can’t.  She’s still recovering from Chadwick’s cocktail.  By the time she stumbles toward the door, she’s fairly lit.  Steve follows her out.  He’s quiet as they step outside.  It’s gotten colder and Peggy shivers, crossing her arms over her chest and ducking her head.  He wraps an arm around her shoulders, holding her close, and she lets him.  For now.

 

The cargo hold is dark and Steve catches one of her belt loops, stopping her.  She looks up at him in the dim light, but his expression is guarded.  He carefully grabs her hips and sets her on top of a stack of crates, so they’re at eye level.  She parts her legs and he closes the distance, kissing her gently.

 

They touch each other lightly, fingertips, lips and tongues.  He tries to deepen the kiss and Peggy pulls away, turning her head.  

 

He stops and waits.  She finally looks at him, pulling her jacket tighter around her body.  “I don’t think we should.”

 

She can see a muscle in his cheek twitch, but he doesn’t say anything.  He nods and steps back.  He watches her for a moment before he turns and leaves.

 

Peggy heads to the galley.  She makes a pot of Alliance grade coffee and spends at least half an hour not really drinking it.  She finally heads to her bunk.  Her pillow is there.  Steve must have moved it from his quarters.

 

She takes a shower and tries not to think about him.

 

* * *

 

The next several jobs are uneventful.  They’re straight up salvage missions.  They avoid Alliance patrols and then hide the contraband on the ship until Fury can get to port and fence them for a moderate profit.  Peggy does her share.  It’s unglamorous work.  Hefting around storage bins and playing lookout.  

 

She and Steve are civil, but they both go out of their way to avoid one another.  It’s obvious that everyone on the crew knows something’s not right between them.  Thankfully, no one asks.

 

Peggy’s knees are finally healed, but they’re scarred, far worse than her right palm, which makes no sense.  When she took the job on Fury’s crew, she had no idea how much physical abuse she’d be signing up for.  

 

There are several high value contracts that Fury passes on.  Peggy doesn’t blame him, but she would have appreciated the money.  Instead, they take a couple of legitimate cargo transport runs, which barely cover their operating expenses.  Jack spends a couple of weeks freelancing for another crew and rumor is Cho’s looking around.

 

Everyone ends up with a week of shore leave on Persephone when Fury can’t find another short-time gig.  Peggy decides against trying to supplement her income and instead, settles for spending every waking minute engaged in physical labor.  She runs a lot.  She and Hill cobble together a makeshift gym and Peggy lifts weights until she can barely move her arms and legs.  

 

Utter physical exhaustion is the only definite way to ensure a decent night’s sleep.  Otherwise, she tosses and turns and spends half the night wondering what Steve is doing.  And who he’s doing it with.  She has never, in her life, been jealous.  It is not a comfortable feeling.

 

* * *

 

Fury finally gets a decent contract.  It involves smuggling live cargo from some rock on the very edge of Alliance space, halfway to the core worlds.  

 

Peggy isn’t sure what she expected when she heard the term ‘live cargo’, but the grim reality of women and children all crammed together into the cargo hold is hard to take.  She’s stunned by how much it reminds her of her first time in Alliance space.  All the starving, dirty faces.  To the majority of them, hope for a better life means training as a companion.

 

As soon as they’re loaded, Peggy pulls Fury aside.  Before she can even get a word out, he cuts her off.  “Nobody’s trafficking them.”  She crosses her arms over her chest, watching him.  He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.  “We’re taking them to Barrow.  There’s more opportunities for them there.”

 

“More opportunities for people to exploit them?” Peggy demands.

 

Fury shakes his head.  “They bought a ticket.  I’ll deliver them to their destination.  From there, it’s up to them.  I can’t save the world.”

 

“No,” she agrees, “but you can make a dime off other people’s suffering.”

 

He frowns at her.  “Do you think they’re better off where they are?  Or is it that you think I should relocate them for free?  I’m not running a charity here.”

 

She shakes her head and stalks away.  She understands Fury’s perspective.  He isn’t running a charity.  But she also knows what it means to be a young woman alone, with no prospects.  If they’re lucky, they’ll be taken on by a guild house and trained to be a registered companion.  It will give them years to acclimate before they’re expected to take clients to support the guild.  

 

If they aren’t lucky - and most of them won’t be - they’ll end up in a whorehouse somewhere, sold early and often until they’re all used up.

 

* * *

 

Peggy gives Malea the pads and shows her to the facilities.  The girl is bleeding, which is too bad.  Most guild houses won’t take girls once they’ve started bleeding.  They make exceptions, as Peggy knows.  But it’s not common.

 

Malea’s a smart girl and attractive.  There’s hope for her, that she can end up as something more than a commodity.  She’s traveling alone, one of the few who is.  And she’s taken to following Peggy around.  Peggy’s not entirely sure what to do about it.  She’s not a role model.  But she does feel like she has quite a bit of practical knowledge which could benefit the young woman.

 

Malea showers and changes into the clothes Peggy gave her.  They’re too big, built for a woman’s body, not a girl’s.  But they’re clean and warm.  Malea finds Peggy and they sit on her bunk, talking.  Malea’s fifteen.  A year younger than Peggy was when she made a similar trip.  Peggy answers Malea’s questions as truthfully as she can, sugarcoating nothing.  The girl doesn’t seem shocked.  That’s probably good.

 

Steve walks by and sees them talking, but he doesn’t say anything.  Later, Peggy catches him in the galley.  

 

“I need a favor,” she says.

 

He looks at her, waiting.

 

“Can I stay with you, tonight?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.  “I want to give Malea my bunk.”

 

“The girl?”

 

Peggy nods.

 

Steve shrugs.  “She could bunk with me.”

 

Peggy knows he said it just to be an ass, but she glares at him.  “Do you need me to make it worth your while?  I know she’s young, but virgins are overrated.  I can guarantee my technique is better.”

 

“Fuck, Peggy,” he says, shaking his head.  “It was a  _ joke _ .  Yes, you can bunk with me.  No technique necessary.”

 

She glances at him.  “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

Peggy gives the knife to Malea.  Not her stiletto, just a knife.  But it’ll get the job done.  Peggy doesn’t really think any of the guys on the crew would bother a child, but Peggy didn’t manage to live as long as she has by giving anyone the benefit of the doubt.

 

Steve’s sketching, propped up in his bed on a mound of pillows, when she enters his quarters.  He glances up at her, but doesn’t greet her at all.  Peggy’s beat.  She spent all day taking care of the passengers.  It was physically exhausting, as well as emotionally.

 

Stripping down to a tanktop and panties, she crawls under the covers.  She rests her head on the mattress.

 

Steve makes an irritated noise and shifts, throwing a pillow over her head.  Peggy yanks it off and frowns at him before beating it into shape and resting her head on it.  He sighs and turns out the light.  The Porthi starscape once again illuminates his ceiling.  He rolls away from her, giving her his back.

 

Peggy lays there for several minutes, looking at his back.  He could do it, she knows.  He could lay there, all night - probably awake - and never reach for her.  He will take her at her word that she doesn’t want anything to happen.

 

The problem, of course, is that she was lying when she said it.  And sharing a bed with him is temptation she can’t ignore.  She digs her fingers lightly into his shoulder and tugs.  

 

He rolls over, looking at her.  Slowly, he moves closer, kissing her.  “I thought you said we shouldn’t.”

 

“Oh, we shouldn’t,” she assures him, parting her legs as he moves over her.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he says, kissing her again.

 

**END CHAPTER**

 


	6. Chapter 6

The next night, Peggy is in his bed before Steve comes to his quarters.  Bucky roped him into working on some ridiculous plan he wants to present to Fury.  Peggy overheard part of it and assumes Steve is humoring Bucky.  Because it’s an awful plan.

 

Peggy spent the day with Malea again.  Peggy wishes she had more to offer the girl, but it’s all Peggy can do to take care of herself these days.

 

She’s awake when Steve slides under the covers.  Again, he gives her his back.  It would be for the best if they could just sleep.  But Peggy craves him.  And she’s pretty sure it’s not just the sex.

 

She pushes herself onto her hands and knees.  Crawling over him, she forces him flat on his back, straddling him.  

 

He kisses her hungrily, his hands roaming over her body.  “Fuck, I missed you,” he says between biting kisses.

 

She doesn’t say anything.  

 

She missed him too.

 

* * *

 

Peggy looks at the clock.  Three hours until they’re in Barrow.  The trip has been surprisingly without incident.  Which, of course, is when everything goes to hell.

 

“Alliance patrol,” Hill says over the intercom.

 

Peggy glances around the cargo hold at the scores of frightened faces.  Natasha comes bolting into the space.  With Bucky, Steve and Fury’s help, they open all the smuggling compartments and start packing people in.

 

Peggy can hear the Alliance chatter over the comm.  Hill is trying to stall, but it isn’t looking good.  Matters aren’t helped by the fact that most of the crew, including Peggy, would prefer to avoid being tagged in any Alliance report.  It would be bad.  Of course, it would be bad for their cargo as well.  Peggy knows most, if not all of them, are in Alliance space illegally.  If they get picked up, they’ll be sent to a detention center.  And then they really will be fair game for countless predators, both with badges and without.

 

They finish cramming women and children into the smuggling compartments.  Jack finds a free spot.  Steve grabs Peggy around the waist and pulls her inside as well, slotting the heavy grate back into place to hide them.  The children are shockingly quiet, their eyes huge in the dark as they cling to their mothers.  Peggy can just make out Bucky and Natasha and the other half of the cargo in the matching space across the cargo hold.

 

There’s a flurry of chatter over the comm and then loud clanging.  “Prepare for boarding,” Hill announces over the intercom.

 

It seems hours before Fury comes into view, leading two officers dressed in shiny Alliance uniforms.  At Peggy’s side, Steve and Jack are watching them too.  

 

“It’s a small patrol,” Steve whispers.  “Probably no more than six crew.  They’re looking for a bribe.”

 

Peggy takes his word for it.  This is the first time, since she joined the crew, that they’ve been boarded.  “What do they want?”

 

He shrugs.  “Credits.  Cargo.  They’re going to have a hell of time finding either in this rust bucket.”

 

Fury is still talking to the officers, clearly trying to work out some kind of agreement.  They’re giving him hell about his manifests, which, admittedly, are a mess.

 

“Sir!”  

 

Peggy watches as some junior officer walks into the cargo hold.  Her blood runs cold.  He has Malea by the arm.  Why isn’t she in one of the compartments?

 

Peggy starts to move and Steve immediately pushes against her with his forearm, pinning her to the wall.  It doesn’t hurt, but she can’t move.  He looks at her and shakes his head.  Peggy glares at him and then contorts herself, trying to get a better look at what’s happening.

 

Malea is now standing between two of the officers.  Fury appears to be talking fast, but the officer in charge looks darkly pleased.

 

Peggy shakes her head. “He can’t give her to them,” she hisses.

 

Steve shakes his head sharply, frowning. “Quiet.”

 

Malea tries to bolt and one of the officers grabs a fistfull of her hair, dragging her back.  Peggy scrambles, pushing against Steve’s arm as hard as she can.  She twists and manages to get free, reaching for the heavy grate.

 

Steve grabs her, pulling her back, pinning her to his chest, clamping his hand over her mouth.  “Be quiet,” he grinds out.

 

He isn’t holding her tightly, but he’s so bloody strong that she cannot move.  She struggles, fighting against him, but it’s no use.  Panic floods through her.  Not again.  Not now.  She struggles blindly, thrashing, but he’s too strong.  Her heart is pounding in her ears, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts.  She bites down on his hand as hard as she can, tasting blood.  

 

He curses, but he does not let go.  He’s whispering in her ear, rocking slowly back and forth.  

 

The moment passes and Peggy stops fighting.  There are tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares blindly into the cargo hold.  

 

Fury’s going to buy all their freedom with Malea.  He’s going to turn that girl over to those bastards.

 

Then there’s a burst of laughter from the officer in charge.  He chucks Fury on the shoulder.  Fury doesn’t look happy, his face set in a grim line.  The officer nods to the other two goons and they shove Malea at Fury.  He catches her, holding her to his side.

 

It seems an eternity before Hill announces, “We’re loose.”

 

Steve releases a shuddering breath and lets Peggy go.  She scrambles for the grate, shoving it out of the way and running for Malea.  Fury lets the girl go and she runs for Peggy, wrapping her arms around her.  

 

Peggy meets Fury’s gaze over the top of Malea’s head.  He frowns at her, gesturing to his face.  “You’ve got blood ...”

 

Peggy wipes at her face.  She escorts Malea to the facilities and both of them straighten up.  True enough, Peggy’s lips and chin are smeared with blood.  It stands out in harsh contrast to how pale she is.  The blood has dripped onto her chest and stained the top of the loose gray tanktop she wears.  There are dried tear tracks on her cheeks.  

 

Mechanically, she washes her face and brushes her teeth.  She’ll treat the stain on the shirt the next time she launders it.

 

Surprisingly, Malea seems in far better shape than Peggy.  She gives Peggy another quick hug before bounding off to make sure she has all of her things.  They’ll be in Barrow within the hour.

 

Fury apparently forked over almost the entire profit from the op, paying off the officers.  He’s in a foul mood.  Peggy feels wrung out, coasting on fumes after the adrenalin high.  She goes looking for Steve and finds him in the infirmary, getting his hand sutured.  

 

“I’m sorry,” Peggy says, wishing like hell Cho wasn’t sitting there.  

 

Steve looks at her, his features tight.  He doesn’t say anything.

 

The next hour is a blur, making sure everyone is accounted for, making sure they have all their things.  Peggy gives Malea contact information for some guild members who might be able to help her, as well as telling her how and where to leave messages if she wants to get in touch.

 

* * *

 

By the time the ship is unloaded it’s late.  Fury’s in such a vile mood that he refuses to stay in port overnight and immediately heads out again as soon as they’ve refueled.  Steve isn’t in the cargo hold and he isn’t in the galley.  Reluctantly, Peggy knocks on the door to his quarters.

 

He pulls open the hatch and looks at her for a long moment before standing aside.  He closes the door after her and says, “What the  _ fuck _ , Peggy?”

 

She sighs, sinking down onto the bed, dragging a hand through her hair.  “I’m sorry I - “

 

“He wasn’t going to give that little girl to those goons,” Steve says, cutting her off.  “What the hell kind of people do you think we are?”

 

She looks up at him, at a loss.  He’s right.  She doesn’t trust them.  None of them.  She doesn’t trust anyone.  She shakes her head, looking away.  “I was her,” she says flatly.  “Once.”

 

Steve sighs and takes a seat on the bed next to her.  “What does that mean?” he asks.  “Really?  Because I know who you are, Peggy.  I know the life you come from.  And that doesn’t make any sense to me.  You’re the heir to the Porth Empire.  What could you possibly have in common with that girl?”

 

She laughs mirthlessly.  “I don’t even know where to start,” she says honestly.  “I’ve never told anyone.”

 

His expression softens and he scoots closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.  She lets him pull her close.  Eventually he turns off the overhead light and urges her to lay back on the bed with him, the Porthi stars twinkling overhead.  “Tell me,” he says quietly.

 

To her own surprise, she does.  She tells him all of it.

 

* * *

 

Steve already knows the broad strokes of Peggy’s personal history.  He was born in Diana’s empire and his grandmother was a royal scholar, bound to the Carter family.  “Diana was the first Empress to venture beyond the borders of the Empire,” Steve says.  “It made the rest of the galaxy take notice.”

 

“Yes,” Peggy agrees, closing her eyes against the memory.  “The Alliance appointed Obadiah Stane as Ambassador.  That was the beginning of the end.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

She shakes her head.  “A child.  Maybe seven or eight.”  She takes a deep breath.  “Grandmother was so strong, but she was ... waning.”

 

“Your mother’s death had to be a blow to her.”

 

“I think it was,” Peggy says.  “Grandmother never spoke of her.  For all of Diana’s policies against the insular nature of Porthi citizens, the older she got, the more secluded she became.  Michael and I had a governess.  Our only playmate was her daughter, Dottie.  We weren’t allowed to leave the palace grounds.  And Grandmother rarely had visitors other than Stane.”

 

“You didn’t like him,” Steve says.

 

“He was a monster,” Peggy says flatly.  “He manipulated and murdered my grandmother.  He orchestrated countless atrocities in her name.”

 

“The purges,” Steve says quietly.

 

Peggy nods.  “Stane didn’t dare attack the Council, but he dealt as decisive a blow as he could.  In Grandmother’s name, he rounded up all the scholars, the healers, my grandmother’s personal guard. Women of consequence.  Anyone who could potentially challenge his power.  He had them executed on fictitious charges.”

 

“Yes,” Steve says quietly.  “I know.”

 

“Is that how your grandmother  -”

 

He nods.  “I never knew Stane was behind it.  Once my grandmother was gone, I was shipped off, to the edge of the Empire with the rest of the underclass.  They sent me to a quarry on some God forsaken rock.  I’d never been away from Porth before.  I didn’t stay there long.”

 

She wraps her arm around his waist, holding him tight, wondering at how much was stolen from both of them.  “I’m sorry.”

 

He hugs her close.  “So am I.”

 

Peggy takes a breath.  “I think Stane’s original plan was to get rid of me.  But then Grandmother became so ill.  I think it was a poison, but I could never prove it.  For the last year, she was a ghost, wasting away.  I used to sit at her bedside and pray for her to open her eyes, to speak, but ...”  She trails off.  “And then she died, when I was thirteen.”

 

Steve shifts, looking at her.  “And you were alone with Stane.”

 

“Not completely alone.  I had Michael.  And Dottie.”  She frowns.  “But Stane controlled every aspect of my daily life.  With the backing of some carefully cultivated political relationships, Stane appointed himself Regent.  Acting in  _ my _ name.”  She shakes her head, sitting up, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, hugging herself.

 

“Peggy?”

 

“It shouldn’t have been possible,” she snaps.  “It was the Porth Empire.  How did an outsider maneuver himself into such a position of power?  How did I let him steal my grandmother from me?  Steal my life, my people, my  _ home _ ?”

 

Steve sits up, touching her back lightly.  “Peggy, you were a  _ child.” _

 

She shakes her head.  “I was never a child.”  She laughs darkly.  “Or maybe I was.  I truly believed that I could outlast him.  I thought that once I reached the age of majority, I could take my place and be rid of him.”

 

Steve swallows audibly.  “I assume Stane had no intention of giving up his power.”

 

“Indeed,” she says bitterly.  “He needed me.  I was the last of Diana’s line.  There were no more Carters who could inherit.  If anything happened to me, power would revert to the Council of Three.  He couldn’t have that.  Grandmother warred with the Council from time to time, but there was a lot of mutual respect.  The Council wanted any opportunity to be rid of Stane.  He needed me, the protection my bloodline provided.  But he needed me  _ weak _ .”

 

“Peggy,” Steve says tightly, “what did Stane do?”

 

“Oh, use a little imagination, Steve,” she says darkly.  “What do you think Stane did to prove his might to a fifteen year old girl on the edge of becoming a woman who would rule the Empire?”  She hangs her head.  “He sent Michael and Dottie away.  Even innocent as I was, I knew it was going to be bad.”

 

“ _ Peggy _ .”  His tone is firm, concerned.

 

She blinks, staring at nothing.  “He meant to sire an heir on me, I’m sure.  If I’d had a daughter, even one who was only half Porthi, he could have done away with me and ruled in her name.”  She shakes her head sharply.  “There were still a few servants loyal to my family.  They helped me escape.  I ran.  As far as I could.  And I never looked back.”  

 

She takes a deep breath.  “I reached Alliance space with nothing.  I was Malea.  I was a commodity, to be bought and sold.  So I decided to use it to my benefit.  I convinced one of the guilds to take me on.  I learned to be a companion.  And I used it.”

 

“What happened to Stane?”

 

She shakes her head.  “He’s still alive.  He found me in Londinium last year.  It’s why I took the job with Fury.  I don’t know what he wanted and I don’t have any intention of finding out.”  

 

She looks at him.  “You called me a Princess,” she says.   “I grew up in a palace, but I never once felt like a Princess.”

 

He curses harshly and reaches out for her, stopping short of touching her.  She looks at him.  Everything in her wants to shove him away, attack him, run, as hard and fast as she can.  But she’s spent a lifetime doing that and what does she have to show for it?

 

She inches closer to him and lets him pull her against his chest.  He wraps his arms around her. “I swear, I will help you in any way I can,” he says.

 

For the first time, in literally as long as she can remember, Peggy thinks she might know what it feels like to be home.

 

**END CHAPTER**


	7. Chapter 7

Steve is already awake when Peggy opens her eyes the next morning.  He’s lying there, quiet, spooned against her back.  She regrets everything she said to him.  She feels raw, exposed.  What possessed her to tell him those things?

 

She rolls over and looks at him in the dim light.  She expects to see ... She doesn’t even know.  Pity, maybe.  Disappointment.  But he just looks at her.  The way he’s always looked at her.  She moves closer to him, tucking her head under his chin.  He wraps his arms around her.

 

She wants to hate the way it feels, but she doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

It turns out that Bucky’s terrible plan isn’t so terrible.  Or maybe it’s just that so many of Fury’s good plans have gone tits up lately.  Fury takes a chance on it.  But he mitigates the risk in every way possible.  It’s a skeleton crew.  Bucky, Natasha, Peggy and Hill.  Fury dumps everyone else on Persephone for the week.  

 

Peggy is both relieved and disappointed at being separated from Steve for the week.  She moves back to her bunk.  She’s still not comfortable with the fact that she confided in him so completely.  But it hasn’t been without its rewards.  The more she speaks of Porth, the more he does as well.  His knowledge of the Empire is staggering and she is desperate to learn.  But it also makes her feel worse.  She’s supposed to be the head of the Empire and she’s clueless about so many things.

 

Peggy isn’t certain when she started thinking of her heritage in those terms, as something that is  _ hers _ .  But it is.  She is Diana’s heir.  She is the rightful leader of the Porth Empire.

 

When they speak of Porth, Steve invariably reminds her that Stane kept her ignorant.  She supposes that should absolve her of some guilt, but it doesn’t. It reminds her that she let someone steal her life out from under her.

 

Steve showed her how to make coffee.  So she has that, while he’s gone.  It’s a poor substitute for him in her bed, but at least it keeps her warm.

 

She still hasn’t told Steve about Jack.  Something tells her it wouldn’t make life on a very small ship any easier.  Steve isn’t overly jealous in general.  He’s not crazy about her friendship with Howard - mostly because Howard never knows when to shut up.  But Peggy knows when Steve finds out that Jack is Porthi, and a member of her personal guard, he’s going to be really difficult to live with.  She’d just as soon avoid the matter entirely.  Steve isn’t the head of the Empire, she is.  It’s her call.

 

The op itself is good.  Peggy and Natasha learn that they can work together really well.  And they end up netting twice what they thought they would get, so Fury’s in a decent mood for once.  They get back to port a day earlier than they anticipated.  

 

Peggy realizes that she’s anxious to see Steve.  It’s unexpected.  She can’t remember any time she was particularly looking forward to seeing someone.

 

But Steve isn’t just anyone.  He’s the only relationship in her life that she’s ever cultivated solely because it makes her feel good.  Having a relationship with him doesn’t secure her allies or garner her favors.  It certainly doesn’t line her pockets.  He isn’t particularly tractable.  And as an orphaned swayback scholar, he definitely isn’t a political asset.

 

But she likes him.  A lot.  And she misses him.

 

And she’s horny as hell.

 

Peggy and Natasha head for the bar where the crew invariably congregate.  It’s late. Peggy hears Howard before she sees him, and follows the noise to a table in the corner.  Cho is there, looking warily at Howard as he recounts a, most likely completely fictitious, story.  Natasha slides into a chair next to Jack.  

 

Steve is sitting on the far side of the table.  There’s a woman sitting in the chair next to him, hanging half out of her chair, her arm braced against the arm of his chair.  She isn’t a barmaid and she isn’t a companion.  Peggy doesn’t know who she is, or where she came from, but she doesn’t like her.  For his part, Steve doesn’t seem to be taking much notice of the woman at all.  He looks up and is obviously startled to see Peggy.  A small smile curves his lips and he crooks a finger at her.

 

Peggy walks around the table, hoping the woman will get the hint.  But she stays where she is, leaning on Steve’s chair.  Peggy looks down at Steve.  “There’s nowhere to sit.”

 

He pushes back from the table, dislodging the woman.  He grabs Peggy, pulling her into his lap.  She fights him half-heartedly, but he pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her jaw.  He has a lot of stubble and it tickles so she squirms away.

 

She finally gives up trying to fight him off and slumps against him.  He kisses her cheek.  “If I’d known you were getting back today, I would have shaved.”

 

She harumphs at him and he gives her a push, rising to stand.  “Let’s get out of here,” he says.

 

They walk toward the docks.  Peggy is half a step ahead of Steve and she has her arms crossed over her chest.

 

“You’re mad about something,” he says evenly.

 

“I’m not mad,” she snaps.  

 

He arches an eyebrow at her.  

 

She growls.  “She was practically sitting in your lap.”

 

His brow furrows.  “Who?”   
  


“The woman.  At the bar.”

 

He legitimately looks like he has no idea what Peggy’s talking about.

 

“Fucking hell,” she curses.  “You really don’t even notice, do you?  Women just throw themselves at you.”

 

“Women don’t throw themselves at me,” he says dismissively.

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

“And even if they did,” he adds sharply.  “I’m not interested.”

 

She turns around and looks at him.  “Oh really?  And why’s that? You suddenly decide on a monastic vocation?”

 

He’s not rising to the bait.  His features are placid as he closes the distance between them, standing right in front of her, staring down at her.  Slowly, he leans forward and kisses her softly.  She wants to bite him.  Instead, she moans, pushing up on tiptoe against him.  His hands find her hips and she wraps her arms around his neck, kissing him hard.

 

He finally pulls back and they’re both breathing faster.  “This is why I’m not interested in other women.”

 

She narrows her eyes at him and he kisses her on the end of the nose.  He shakes his head, seeming bemused and tired, which is not typically an effect she has on men.  He takes her hand and tugs at her until she falls into step with him, headed for the ship.

 

“I’m yours, Peggy,” he says quietly.  “For as long as you want me.”

 

She glances over at him.  “Meaning what?  We’re dating?”

 

He snorts and looks over at her.  “I have quite a few books on Porthi law and lore in my quarters.  We’re going to start studying.”

 

“Don’t speak to me like I’m an idiot,” she snaps.  She does not care to be a source of amusement for him.

 

They’re nearly to the ship and he pulls her to a halt, turning so they’re face to face.  “You’re Diana’s heir.”

 

She purses her lips together.  She knows this.

 

He shrugs.  “ _ You _ set the terms of our involvement.  Not me.  So we’re dating, we’re not dating.  Whatever.  Whatever you want.  But I’m not interested in the woman at the bar.  I’m yours.  For as long as you want me.  I’m  _ your _ consort.”

 

“My consort?” she asks, brow furrowed.

 

He nods.  “Yes.”

 

She crosses her arms over her chest.  “I don’t - What does that mean?”

 

He blinks slowly.  Like his head hurts.  “It means that you’re the reigning - “

 

“Fuck.  I know what the  _ word _ means, Steve,” she snaps.  “I need to know what  _ you _ mean when you say it.  How the hell are you my consort?  And don’t say it’s because we fucked.  Because if that’s the case, half of Londinium is my consort.”

 

His left eye twitches a little.  “Were they Porthi?”

 

“You know they weren’t.”

 

“There you go.”

 

She shakes her head.  “You can’t be serious.  I may not know shit about Porthi law and lore, but I do remember the ceremonies.  When Rose Roberts made Bruce her consort, half the goddamn Empire was at the party.”  Peggy wasn’t allowed to attend, but she snuck out anyway.  It was a highly inappropriate place for a fourteen year old girl to be.  It was one of Peggy’s fondest memories.

 

“As with most Porthi law and customs, a ceremony is traditional, but not required.”

 

She narrows her eyes.  “What is required?”

 

“At its basest level, a claim and an acceptance.  It’s not magic,” he says, clearly frustrated.  “A powerful woman says ‘I want you’ and her consort accepts or refuses the claim.”

 

She shakes her head.  “I didn’t claim - “

 

“ _ Yes you did _ ,” Steve snaps vehemently.

 

“When?”

 

He steps closer to her, his hands resting lightly at her hips.  She has to look up to meet his gaze.  “That night on Cordon’s Down,” he says quietly.  “The first time we fucked.”  He leans closer as he speaks and his voice is low growl.  “You said  _ mine _ .”  He punctuates the word by pulling her hips against him and she shivers.  “And I said  _ yes. _ ”

 

She groans, kissing him.  His hands are on her ass, hitching her higher against his body.  Fuck, she missed him.  Is that why it’s like this between them?  This madness?  Is it because she inadvertently -

 

She pulls back, putting a step between them.  “Wait a minute.  So I entered into some agreement without an understanding of what was happening - “

 

“Fucking hell,” he curses, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “It’s  _ on your terms _ , Peggy.  So if you don’t want it, you only need to say that.”

 

She looks at him.  “Okay.”

 

He looks like he’s about ready to have an aneurysm.  “Is that what you’re saying?  That you don’t want me as your consort?”

 

She crosses her arms over her chest.  “No.  I’m not saying that.”

 

He shakes his head and turns toward the ship.  “I give up.”

 

She glares at his retreating form.  “Come back here.”

 

He shakes his head.  

 

“You’re my consort,” she yells after him.  “You have to do what I say.”

 

He flips her the bird without stopping, or looking at her.  “Consort, not slave.  Different things.”  He walks up the loading ramp and into the ship’s cargo hold.

 

* * *

 

Peggy’s awake in her bunk, stewing with frustration.  She misses Steve.  But she doesn’t want to be the one to go looking for him.  

 

She hears the footfalls in the corridor and she knows it’s him.  He pauses in front of her bunk and pulls back the curtain.  He looks at her in the dim light.  She lays there, meeting his gaze.  She shifts on the narrow mattress, fully aware that her movement sends the blanket sliding off her leg, baring her thigh.

 

He curses under his breath.  

 

Peggy pushes herself up into a sitting position.  The blanket falls away entirely.  She’s wearing nothing but a sheer tanktop and a pair of underwear.  It leaves little to the imagination.  His gaze rakes over her and she can see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.  Slowly, he steps closer to her.  The bunk is at the level of his chest, so she’s slightly taller than him at the moment.  

 

He reaches out, cupping the side of her face.  Her eyes flutter shut and she turns her head, pressing a kiss into his palm.  She can feel the healing scars from where she bit him.  He curses again and grabs her, pulling her to him.  She wraps her legs around his waist, kissing him hard.  He carries her down the corridor to his quarters.

 

They barely have the hatch shut when she pushes him back on the bed.  She tears at her own clothes and he does the same thing.  He’s sitting on the bed with his shirt off, shoving his trousers down his hips when she climbs on top of him.  He’s hard already and she takes him in hand, stroking him before she sinks down onto him without preamble.  

 

His hands are everywhere, cupping her breasts, urging her to ride him harder.  She shivers, moaning, digging her fingernails into his back and shoulders.  She wants to mark him, to claim him.  He’s hers.  All hers.

 

She gives herself over to this madness, this need, and tightens around him, riding him faster.  Her climax washes over her and he keeps her moving, wringing out every bit of pleasure.  As she comes back to herself, he shifts rolling her onto her back, driving into her, finding his own release.

 

He slumps against her.  “Fuck.”

 

She scrapes her nails along his scalp.  “I guess you missed me.”

 

He pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down at her, shaking his head, frowning.  “I love you.  You jerk.”

 

* * *

 

They lay there, neither speaking.  Peggy has no idea what to think about what Steve said.  She’s not sure she can handle much more tonight.   Steve sits up and finishes shoving his trousers down his legs.  He kicks them away and then stretches out on the bed next to her.  Fuck, he’s beautiful.  She forces herself to look away.  

 

“Is this why nobody ever leaves the Empire?” she asks.

 

“I doubt it,” he says quietly.

 

She wonders if he’s still angry at her.  Even if he is, she doesn’t know what to do about it.  “Your books don’t say anything about this?”

 

He rolls onto his side, looking at her.  He cups her cheek in his hand and kisses her.  “Bucky’s an idiot and the sex thing is a myth.”

 

“It’s not,” she says.  She gestures to the bed.  “Obviously.”

 

He reaches over and turns off the light and then throws the covers over both of them.  He urges her to roll onto her side and then spoons against her.

 

“ _ Steve _ .”

 

“Go.  To.  Sleep.”

 

* * *

 

“Admit it,” Bucky cajoles.  “It was a good plan.”

 

Peggy frowns.  “It was a terrible plan that turned out really well.”

 

“God, I can’t get the tiniest bit of credit, can I?”

 

“Not from me, no,” Peggy assures him.

 

Steve walks into the galley, yawning.  Peggy is leaning back against the counter, talking to Bucky, who is eating the largest bowl of cereal she’s ever seen.  Steve presses a hard kiss to Peggy’s temple and swipes the coffee cup out of her hand.  He sits at the table across from Bucky and pounds the coffee, finally setting down the empty cup.

 

Bucky makes a face.  “You two and that coffee.”

 

Steve looks at the empty cup and then over at Peggy.  “You made this?”

 

“I did.”

 

He nods.  “Not bad.”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “Look, if you two are shacked up, can you at least move Marge’s footlocker so I have more room to store stuff in the bunkroom?”

 

Steve looks at her and she realizes he’s waiting on her.  

 

“We’ll move it,” she says.

 

Steve doesn’t say anything.  But he looks pleased.

 

* * *

 

Every job for the next month goes off without a hitch.  They’re not raking in the credits, but it’s steady work.  True to his word, Steve shows Peggy the books on Porthi law and lore.  She’s shocked at how much of it is familiar and she wonders if she’s blocked out more than she realized.

 

Steve’s quarters are now  _ their _ quarters and Peggy learns it’s easier to step over his mounds of junk than to pick a fight about his packrat tendencies.  Natasha takes Peggy’s bunk, claiming the mattress is better.  Peggy finally gets the coffee ratios down pat.

 

The sex continues to be unsettlingly good.  And getting better.  Peggy doesn’t even know how that’s possible.  They don’t really discuss the consort business again.  Peggy suspects there isn’t much to say.  Though she realizes it puts all the onus on her.  If she wants out, she’s going to have to be the one to end it.  He never will.  

 

Steve tells her that he loves her two more times.  Once as they are drifting off to sleep after shockingly satisfying sex.  And once when they’re sitting on the floor of the cargo hold repairing grates.  

 

It still scares the hell out of Peggy.  

 

She can’t say the words to him.  

 

But she’s no longer so sure that it’s because she doesn’t reciprocate.

 

* * *

 

Peggy stretches and rolls over, reaching for Steve.  He’s not there.  She blinks, lifting her head and looking around the room.  There’s a small crystal lamp lit, giving off dim light.  Steve is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed, sketching.  For several minutes, she watches him.  He’s a talented artist, something she never would have suspected prior to getting involved with him.

 

She reaches out and touches the nape of his neck lightly, then scrapes her fingernails up his scalp.  He arches back into her touch, sucking in a deep breath, making a contented noise.  She finally pulls her hand away and he gives her his cup of coffee without turning to look at her.  She takes it, propping herself up on one elbow and finishes it.     

 

She scoots closer to him and then leans over the side of the bed, setting the empty cup on the floor.  There are times like this, when he’s withdrawn and pensive.  She never knows, in these moments, which ghosts haunt him.  But tonight she thinks she has a fairly good idea.  “Can’t sleep?”  

 

He shrugs.

 

She lays down on her back, watching him.  The way he’s sitting, about even with her hips, she can see his profile.  His brow is furrowed and he’s concentrating on what he’s doing.  

 

She knows that he’s not happy about the job Fury signed up for.  They’re en route to Londinium, which fills Peggy with both relief and dread.  But she doesn’t like how quiet it has Steve.

 

“I didn’t realize that Fury had business in the core worlds,” Peggy says, pushing the issue.

 

Steve frowns and grunts, which is not a good sign.  Several months ago, that’s exactly the response she would have expected from him.  But now she knows better.  She knows that despite his physique, he’s very articulate, measured.  The fact that he won’t talk about this is a problem.

 

“Hey,” she says softly, reaching out and tracing her nails lightly across his shoulder.  

 

He finally turns and looks at her, brow still furrowed.  She wonders if he wants to be alone, if her presence here is an intrusion.  With a sigh, he sets his sketchbook aside and crawls onto the bed, over her, kissing her. He pulls back the covers and she shivers.  The air is chilled, one of the heaters is on the fritz.  He urges her to roll over, and then presses himself against her back, his legs twined with hers, warming her. 

 

His hand is on her shoulder and his thumb traces over her mark.  “We need to make sure this is covered well,” he says tightly.  “Cho got some extra durable synthskin when we docked in White Raven.  We should use that.”

 

She rolls forward, onto her stomach and then pushes herself up, frowning at him. He looks at her, but doesn’t say anything.  She sighs.  “You don’t like that we’re going to Londinium.”

 

He takes a deep breath and exhales sharply, staring at the ceiling.  “I know what’s happened the last two times we ventured close to core worlds.  We have to assume that this will be worse.”

 

She looks at him, but doesn’t say anything.

 

He frowns at her and she knows that whatever he’s going to say, he’s been stewing on it for a long time.  “How old are you?”

 

She pushes herself up into a sitting position, wrapping the blanket around herself as she looks down at him.  “I’m twenty-nine, which you already know.”  He can probably trace her family tree back several centuries by memory.  He knows precisely how old she is.

 

He nods, lips pursed together tightly.  “If Stane hadn’t interfered, you could have claimed the throne when you were seventeen.”

 

She rakes her hair back from her face.  “What does it matter?  That’s not what happened.”

 

“Even after you turned seventeen,” he continues, undeterred by her response, “Stane could have remained Regent.  Until your thirtieth birthday.”

 

She blinks at him.  They were looking at some of the texts pertaining to succession earlier in the week.  The texts were ancient, far predating the Empire, developed to govern the Porthi city-states.  But they’re still relevant, provided you can slog through the language.  Even Stane, with his boundless ambition, can’t subvert millennia of Porthi law and tradition.  

 

“But I’m not there, which means Stane isn’t Regent.  Control of the Empire reverted to the Council of Three until a new line of succession could be established.”

 

Steve holds her gaze.  “It didn’t revert.”

 

Peggy looks down at him.  “How do you know?”

 

“I’ve been making discreet inquiries,” he admits.  “Stane is still Regent.”

 

“ _ How? _ ” Peggy demands, unsettled by how shrill her voice sounds.  “For who?”

 

Steve arches an eyebrow.  “For you.”

 

Peggy opens her mouth, but can find no words.  

 

Steve shakes his head.  “I wasn’t able to get a lot of details.  You know how it is.  As best I can tell, he either has someone pretending to be you, or he’s concocted some cover to hide the fact that you’ve been gone for years.  But either way, he’s being quickly herded into a very tight corner by your approaching birthday.”

 

He takes a breath.  “By your thirtieth birthday, you either have to assume full responsibility for the Empire, or control will revert to the Council,” he says.  “There’s no way Stane can maneuver around that.  And assumption of the throne can’t be conducted by proxy.  It has to be  _ you _ .  In person.  Before the Council.  It’s one of the few instances where Porthi tradition and law are in perfect agreement.”

 

Peggy shakes her head.  “But if Stane has had someone pretending to be me - “

 

“The Council has to suspect that something is very wrong,” Steve says.  “As much as they warred with Diana, they despise Stane more.   He’s an outsider.  They will require absolute proof, solid genetic evidence that you’re Diana’s granddaughter in the flesh.”

 

Peggy looks at him, holding his gaze.  She feels like this has been unavoidable, like they’ve been building to this from the moment he saw her mark.  She is the heir to the Porth Empire, with all that it entails.  She can’t hide.  Maybe she doesn’t want to.

 

Steve sits up.  “You’re in more danger now than ever.  Going to Londinium right now is a bad idea.”

 

“Killing me now would be pointless,” Peggy says carefully.

 

Steve nods.  “I don’t think Stane would have any interest in killing you, Peggy.  He needs you.  It’s literally his life on the line.”

 

Peggy takes a deep breath, staring blindly at the wall.  “What’s his play?  He couldn’t compel me when I was a child?  How does he plan to ensure my cooperation now?”

 

“Hell if I know,” Steve says wearily.  “But Stane has never lacked ambition.  And he’s had years to plan.  Londinium is dangerous.”  

 

“Steve, I lived on Londinium for a decade,” she explains.  “People know me.  I have allies there.”

 

“Stane is still the Alliance ambassador to Porth,” he says sharply.  “He’s still better connected than you.  And your allies may not be as loyal as you think.”

 

Peggy bristles, crossing her arms over her chest.  “I cultivated my relationships carefully,” she says darkly.

 

He looks away and she can see his jaw muscles clench.  “I heard what Chadwick said to you.  That isn’t something an ally says.”

 

“He was neither a patron or an ally,” she says tightly.  “And Vernon Masters was a mistake from which I learned much.”

 

Steve shakes his head, obviously frustrated.  “How do you think your patrons felt about it when you left town?”

 

She shrugs.  “I couldn’t possibly begin to guess.”  

 

His brow furrows and she knows he’s considering his words carefully.  “I know how I feel about you.  I know that if you disappeared tomorrow, I would do ...  _ a lot _ to get you back,” he says quietly.  “I’m wondering how many of them feel the same way.  Or how many of them might want to punish you for leaving.”  He rakes his hand through his hair.  “Some of them have to suspect who you really are.”

 

She looks at him.  “They were  _ business _ relationships.  Payment for services rendered.  What you and I have - “  She looks away.  “It wasn’t like that with any of them.  I was a distraction to most of them, an amusement.”

 

He sighs and she knows he’s frustrated.  She has no idea how to make him understand.  Her clients had her body and a set of choreographed routines.  Nothing more.  The idea that any of them could be driven to vengeance over her leaving seems ridiculous.

 

She pushes herself up on her knees and puts her hands against his shoulders, straddling him.  His hands find her hips as she sits down against him.  He blinks up at her.  She can’t meet his gaze, it’s too intense.  She traces her finger along the edge of his face, watching the play of red lacquer against his stubble roughened jaw.

 

She shakes her head.  “The woman they had ... she wasn’t me.  It wasn’t - “

 

He cuts off her words with a kiss.  She leans into it, grateful to be spared the difficulty of trying to explain.  She doesn’t know how to articulate it.  For all her skill as a companion, with Steve it’s ... different.  She’s not performing.  With him there’s no distance, no routine.  She wants him because he brings her pleasure.  She touches him because it feels good to give him pleasure.

 

He tumbles them back on the bed and starts to kiss his way down her body.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, the lamp burns low.  Steve’s fingers trace lightly over her mark.  “You’re determined to return to Londinium.”

 

She rolls over and looks at him.  “I am.”

 

He purses his lips together tightly.  “You’re planning to take back your Empire.”

 

She nods.  “Yes.  And I can’t do that if I continue to hide.”

 

He sighs deeply.  She doesn’t think he’s angry, or even that he disagrees with her plan.  He’s simply worried.  She reaches out, cupping his cheek and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.

  
“Whatever you do, Peggy,” he says.  “I’m with you.”

 

END CHAPTER


	8. Chapter 8

Londinium is exactly as Peggy remembers it, and shockingly strange.  She’s spent the last year bouncing around ports at the far edges of Alliance space.  She’s forgotten how uniform, how regimented, Londinium is.

 

Fury’s job is straightforward and doesn’t even involve her or Steve directly.  It’ll take at least a week.  Peggy hasn’t said anything to Fury yet, but she’s not at all certain that she will be leaving with him when they cast off.  She has to make the most of her time in Londinium, she needs to see if she can confirm the rumors Steve heard about Porth.

 

Peggy knows that if Steve had his way, she would never be out of his sight.  But even he can’t be everywhere at once, so she doesn’t find it difficult to slip away.  She knows Londinium far better than he does.

 

Peggy spends the morning and most of the day running from one task to the next.  She meets with one of her bankers.  She still has considerable assets, stockpiled from her years as a companion.  But she is reluctant to use them.  She knows it creates an easily traceable trail.  

 

She sends a message to Varys.  If anyone can get her insider information on Porth, it’s him and his network of spies.  She picks up some basic provisions she’s found impossible to acquire in the outer rim.

 

By the time she heads for her apartment, it’s early evening and she knows she’s being followed.  The doorman greets her with his usual deference, making no mention of how long she’s been away.  Her apartment is the penthouse.  When she steps off the coded elevator, she’s standing in her living room.  

 

The room is what one would expect of an exclusive companion.  The space is impeccably decorated in warm, rich colors.  The fabrics and furnishings are sumptuous and inviting.  The floors are a dark, rich wood, interspersed with expensive, jewel toned carpets.  Despite the fact that there is a phenomenal view from this height, there aren’t a lot of windows.  The space is closed, intimate.  There is a cavernous fireplace and the room is littered with candles, though none are lit.  In the corner is the bed, a grand, four poster affair with crimson silk sheets and satin covered pillows and bolsters.

 

The AI that runs her penthouse buzzes.  A disembodied voice informs her, “Intruder alert.  Authorities have been notified.”

 

“Cancel the cops,” Peggy says wearily.  “Add him to the list of authorized occupants.”

 

“Authorities canceled,” the AI replies.  “Visitor added to list, bringing total number of authorized occupants to two.”

 

Peggy sighs.  “Is it what you expected?” she asks.

 

Steve grunts.  She turns to look at him.  He’s standing there, pack thrown over one shoulder, examining the space, seeming unimpressed.  He looks around, frowning.  He glances in the enormous, spa-like bathroom.  And then at the gourmet kitchen.  

 

He turns to her expectantly.  “Where do you really live?”

 

Her lips curve in a reluctant smile and she walks over to a wall of bookshelves.  She runs her palm along the edge of one of the shelves and the unit swings open, revealing a hallway.  Unlike the rest of the penthouse, this space is bright.  There are floor to ceiling windows that line one side of the hallway, catching the last of the sun’s fading rays.  As they step through, the door slides shut again.  

 

He follows her down the hall to the open living room and kitchen.  The floors are of a pale wood and there are windows everywhere.  All the walls are a soft gray.  The cabinets and counters are stark white, all of the accents are metal.  The bathroom is every bit as luxurious as the one in the other space, but it’s all done in light colors and natural finishes.  The bedroom’s walls are a darker gray and the bed is easily half the size of the other room’s centerpiece, with white, natural fiber bedding.  Steve flops down onto it and arches an eyebrow at her.

 

She looks at him, lying there on her bed - her  _ real _ bed.  She’s never invited anyone here.  No man has ever been in this room.  Steve looks perfectly at home, like an overgrown housecat marking territory.

 

She frowns.  “You could at least take your boots off.”

 

“C’mere,” he says, holding out his arm.  

 

She toes out of her shoes and then yanks his boots off before crawling onto the bed next to him, curling against his side.  She’s exhausted and he seems content to simply hold her.  She doesn’t bother asking him how he found her or, or how he got into the apartment.  She knows he won’t tell her.  

 

* * *

 

Peggy wakes to the AI’s notification chirp.  She pushes herself up on one elbow and grabs her datapad, looking at the notification.  It’s evening.  They slept for a couple of hours.  

 

“What is it?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep.

 

“Varys,” she says. “He wants to meet.”

 

“The spider,” Steve says, frowning.

 

Peggy arches an eyebrow.  “You know who Varys is?”

 

“Everyone knows who Varys is,” he says dryly.  “And his spies.”  He sighs, sitting up.  “I assume you asked him about Porth.”

 

“I did.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I don’t know,” she says.  “That’s why he wants to meet.”

 

Steve nods and scoots off the bed.  He rises to stand and pulls his shirt over his head.  He holds out a hand to her.  “Come on, I want to check out your fancy bathroom.”

 

“You go ahead and check it out yourself,” she says.  “I already showered today.  I’ll have food delivered.”

 

He just looks at her.

 

“We don’t have time,” she says, standing and pushing him in the direction of the bathroom.  

 

Peggy has the AI order food.  While she’s waiting for it to be delivered, she makes up some reason to talk to Steve while he’s showering.  She’s seen him naked plenty of times.  But the change of venue is interesting.  Fucking hell, he’s handsome.  He invites her in, but she manages to refrain.  Barely.

 

The mood is considerably more somber as they sit on her couch and eat, mostly in silence.  She knows he’s on edge.  She imagines he would be on edge regardless, but the meeting with Varys didn’t help any.  She doesn’t know who exactly he envisioned when she said she had allies.  But clearly Varys wasn’t one of them.

 

“What did you do with your day?” she asks, tucking her toes under his thigh.

 

He looks over at her.  “I made some inquiries.”

 

“More of them?” she asks tightly. 

 

“I reached out again to some contacts who might be useful.”

 

“What sort of contacts?” she asks, narrowing her gaze.

 

He sighs.  “I’ll make introductions tonight.  After we see Varys.”

 

“We?” she asks.  “What makes you think that you’re invited?”

 

He sets his container of food down on the coffee table and leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs as he looks over at her.  “You’re the heir to the Porth Empire.  You need protection.”

 

Peggy pointedly does not mention Jack.  As far as she knows, he’s helping Fury anyway.  “I am perfectly capable of navigating around this city unescorted.”

 

He looks at her, narrowing his eyes.  “Wherever you go, I am going too.”

 

Peggy bristles.  Part of it is her instinctive superiority.  He does not get to tell her how her life will go. But the more rational part of her brain knows it’s far more complicated than that.  He is her consort and lover.  She knows how bloody stubborn he can be.  And for better or for worse, as he alluded to, at this moment, he is the sum total of the protective detail for the heir to the Porth Empire.  “Fine.”

 

* * *

 

The guild house is solidly run of the mill.  Neither high class nor low rent.  It’s situated in the center of Londinium’s red light district.  Peggy leads Steve through the back entrance and she is immediately shown to Varys’s private drawing room.

 

Varys greets her with an enthusiastic, “ _ Margaret! _ _ Darling!” _ , kissing her on both cheeks.  He looks over her shoulder at Steve and arches an expertly tweezed eyebrow.  “Well, what have we here?”  He looks at Peggy, meeting and holding her gaze.  “I never thought I’d see the day.”  He turns away, walking back to his chaise.

 

“What day is that, Varys?” she asks, taking a seat in a sumptuously upholstered couch opposite him.

 

Varys gives her a knowing smile, glancing from her to Steve and back.  “He can’t afford you, my dear,” Varys says, sotto voce, leaning out and tapping Peggy on the knee with his fan.  “Which means you’re with him because you want to be with him.   _ That _ is the day I never thought I’d see.”

 

Peggy crosses her legs and leans back against the couch, watching Varys.  She’s aware of Steve standing behind her.

 

“Or perhaps he’s your Captain of the Guard,” Varys speculates, opening his fan with a flick of his wrist, as he watches Steve.  He looks back to Peggy.  “I suppose the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

 

“What have you heard, Varys?” Peggy prompts.

 

The spider gives her a cold smile.  “I’ve heard that our dear little Margaret is, in fact, the seldom seen Porthi Empress.”

 

Peggy is aware of Steve shifting closer to her.

 

Varys smiles again.  “Have no fear of me,” he says blandly.  “But you are popular.  There are many people who would request an audience with you.”

 

“Such as?” Peggy asks tightly.

 

Varys frowns and waves, as if shooing away the requests.  “Many of them don’t bear repeating, my dear.  Though I’m sure you can guess.  Vernon Masters, of course.”  He pauses.  “And Ambassador Stane.”  He waits, seeing how that one will land.

 

Peggy keeps her features perfectly blank.

 

Varys sighs, clearly disappointed.  “But the most interesting request came from such an unexpected source,” he says.  He leans over, reaching for a box on a side table.

 

Steve bounds over the couch, placing himself between Peggy and Varys.  

 

Varys holds perfectly still, blinking up at Steve.  A slow smile spreads across his features.  “My, but you are brave, aren’t you?”  He doesn’t say it like it’s a good thing.

 

Peggy reaches out, touching Steve’s hand lightly.  Reluctantly, he steps back, standing next to her.

 

Varys cautiously opens the box.  He takes out a lump of green material and holds it out.  Carefully, Peggy leans forward, taking it from his hand.  She turns it over.  It’s a stuffed animal, old and faded.  Well loved.  It’s a dragon, still missing one eye, his wings uneven.  Peggy blinks quickly.  

 

“He said you would understand,” Varys says quietly.  “He wants to see you.  Tomorrow.  He seemed quite desperate.”

 

Peggy nods, still looking at the dragon.  She knows Steve is watching her.  Slowly, she stands.  Varys holds out the scrap of paper.  “What do I owe you?” she asks.

 

He shakes his head.  “Let’s just say I would prefer if the Empress of Porth owed me a favor.”

 

She looks down at him and nods.  “One more thing, Varys,” she says.  “There’s a girl.  On Barrow.  Malea.  Hopefully she’s with one of the guild houses there.  If you could find her, give her shelter and time, I would be greatly indebted to you.”

 

He nods, arching an eyebrow.  “I shall do my best.  Empress.”

 

* * *

 

Peggy walks quickly down the street, the toy stuffed in her pocket.  Steve keeps pace with her.  It’s several blocks before she can stop and take a breath.  “You said you had a contact to meet,” she says, finally looking at him.

 

He nods.  “What did Varys give you?”

 

She shakes her head, frowning, ignoring his question.  “Where is the meeting?”

 

Steve gives her the address.  One of the luxury hotels on the Strand.  They take the train to the city center and then catch a cab.

 

The cab drops them a block from the hotel.  The breeze coming off the sea is cool and Peggy pulls her jacket tighter around herself.  “Who is this mysterious contact?”

 

Steve sighs, his hands shoved in his pockets.  “Her name is Sif.  She’s an Asgardian.”

 

Peggy stops walking and looks at him.  “Asgardian?”

 

He meets her gaze evenly.  “You need allies, Peggy.  Powerful allies.”

 

“This is not Asgardian business,” she bites out.

 

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.  But they have as much of a stake in this as anybody.  If Porth falls into chaos, it’s bad news for everyone.”

 

“What did you tell them?” Peggy demands.  “You do  _ not _ have the right to negotiate in my name.”

 

He sighs, his expression softening.  “I didn’t tell them anything,” he says evenly.  “I didn’t negotiate anything.  I requested a meeting.”

 

Peggy frowns, somewhat placated.  “Why would they help me?”

 

“I don’t expect they will help you, unless it also benefits them,” Steve says pragmatically.  “But I believe it would benefit them.  They don’t want Porth in turmoil, or under control of the Alliance.”  He takes a deep breath.  “What other options do we have?  You need allies with a might to equal Stane’s and there aren’t many of them.  Our next best bet would be the Nova Empire, but they’re so far away, and already stretched thin.”

 

Peggy shakes her head, staring out at the sea.  “This is actually happening, isn’t it?  I’m really going to go to war with Stane for Porth.” 

 

Steve steps closer, pressing against her back.  “Do you want to keep running forever?”

 

“I thought so,” she says, laughing bitterly. 

 

“It’s who you are, Peggy,” he says softly.  “You’re a fighter.”

  
  


* * *

 

Peggy knows at a glance that the woman at the door is Sif.  She is tall and holds herself straight and proud, a warrior’s bearing.  Her hair is long and dark, her eyes a piercing hazel.  Peggy has seen her before, from a state dinner when Peggy was but a child.  Asgardians are considerably longer lived than Porthi.

 

Sif pulls open the door to the suite and steps aside, bidding them enter.  She leads them through the suite’s foyer and into the living room.  She stands at attention in a way that desperately reminds Peggy of the women she grew up with.

 

“What proof do I have that you are Peggy Carter?” Sif demands, staring at Peggy.

 

Steve curses.  “Nice to meet you too, Sif.”

 

Peggy smirks, reaching over and putting a hand on Steve’s arm.  She is accustomed to such blunt negotiations and she is shocked at how much she has missed them.  Without a word, Peggy removes her jacket, handing it to Steve.  She’s wearing a tanktop beneath and she turns, showing Sif the back of her right shoulder.  She holds her hair out of the way.

 

Sif steps closer, inspecting the mark.  With a nod, she steps back.  “Very well, my lady.  I am the Lady Sif of Asgard.”

 

“You can call me Peggy,” Peggy says, taking the jacket from Steve and shrugging back into it.  “And this is Steve.”

 

Sif arches an eyebrow at Steve.

 

“He’s the Captain of my Guard,” Peggy says, rather tongue in cheek, borrowing Varys’s barb.

 

Sif doesn’t seem to think it’s amusing.  “Greetings, Captain,” she says, inclining her head.

 

“I assume you know why we’re here,” Peggy says, taking a seat without waiting to be invited.

 

Sif follows her lead, sinking down into a couch opposite.  “You are the deposed Empress of Porth,” Sif says, “and you need help to regain your throne.”

 

“Without destroying my empire in the process,” Peggy says pointedly.

 

Sif inclines her head.  “Asgard is not eager to see Porth fall into Alliance hands, or to watch another centuries long civil war to determine the line of succession.”

 

“Well, that makes two of us,” Peggy says.  “Would Asgard be willing to support my cause?”

 

Sif purses her lips together.  “Perhaps.  I am here merely as an envoy.  I am not empowered to negotiate on behalf of the King and Queen.”

 

“You may not be able to negotiate,” Peggy says tightly, “but you do have some idea of what the negotiations would involve.  What does Asgard want from Porth?”

 

Sif is quiet for a long moment.  “It is my understanding that the King is of the mind that the Prince needs a wife.”

 

Peggy sits back, sinking into the cushions, stunned.  Of all the concessions she dreamed they would request, this was not one of them.  She clears her throat.  “Which Prince?”

 

Sif smiles tightly.  “Thor.”

 

Peggy honestly doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than the alternative.  She shakes her head sharply.  “And if I’m not in the market for a husband?”

 

Sif shrugs.  “As I said, I am not empowered to negotiate.  I am sharing my opinion.  Nothing more.  I was sent to discover whether or not your claim to the Porthi throne was legitimate.  And to see if you were receptive to Asgardian assistance.”

 

Peggy is quiet for a long moment.  She stands, taking a deep breath.  “Tell your King and Queen that I request Asgard’s assistance.  And the next time we speak, it should be with someone who is empowered to negotiate.”

 

Sif bows deferentially.  “Empress.”

 

Peggy turns, heading for the door, not waiting to see if Steve is following.

 

* * *

 

Peggy pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders, stepping to the curb and hailing the cab.  She climbs in the back and Steve slides in next to her.  They take the cab the entire way back to her apartment in perfect silence.

 

Peggy stares out at the lights of Londinium at night.  It’s clear that Steve has been doing more than making discreet inquiries about Porth.  She understands that everything he is doing is to support her claim to the throne.  But he reached out to Asgard.  He had to know that Odin is looking to shackle Thor to a wife.

 

Peggy doesn’t know what to do with that.  Steve is her first real lover and for him to set these events in motion ...  She’s angry, irate.   _ How dare he _ .

 

Peggy takes the service elevator up to the penthouse, refusing to look at Steve.  It deposits her directly in her real apartment, so she doesn’t have to walk through the theater.  The lights are all off, but it’s not dark, thanks to the windows and Londinium’s light pollution.  She takes her coat off, tossing it over one of the chairs and drags her hand through her hair, rounding to face Steve.  “I thought you were my consort.” 

 

“I am,” he replies evenly.  “For as long as you will have me.”

 

She shakes her head.  “I’ve never actually had a pimp.  I can’t say I particularly cared for it.”

 

“ _ Fuck _ , Peggy,” he curses, tossing his jacket down next to hers.  “It was a  _ discussion _ with one of the few viable allies you might have.”

 

“And all I have to do is marry Asgard’s crown prince.”

 

Steve’s jaw is clenched tightly and the muscle in his cheek twitches.  “What do you think Stane will do, Peggy?” he demands.  “Do you think he’ll play nice?  He  _ murdered _ your grandmother.  The things he did to you.  He’s trying to take the entire Empire as his own.  And if he fails it will cost him his life.  He has nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

 

“I know that!” Peggy bellows.

 

Steve shakes his head.  “Do you?  Because I’m not sure you understand how serious this is.”

 

Her head snaps back like he hit her and she glares at him.  “Do  _ not _ presume to tell me who I am.”  She stalks away toward the bedroom.

 

“ _ Shit _ ,” he curses.  “Peggy, wait.”  He reaches out for her hand and she shakes him off.  She slams the bedroom door shut, but he immediately pushes it open again.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean - “

 

She turns and grabs the front of his shirt, slamming him back against the wall.  He doesn’t do anything in response except look down at her.  They’re both breathing hard.  It’s dark and everything suddenly seems so real.  Her hands start to shake.

 

Slowly, he leans forward, pressing his lips to hers.  She wants to fight him, to hate him, but she feels so raw, so trapped and she  _ needs _ him.  She kisses him back, using her grip on his shirt to pull herself closer to him.  His arms go around her, hitching her higher against his body.

 

They stumble backwards, to the bed, stripping off clothes as they go.  She pushes him down and he sits on the edge of the bed.  She climbs on top of him, kissing him again, still angry and upset.  “You’re mine,” she says against his lips.

 

He nods.  “Yes.”

 

She fumbles with the fly of his trousers and he undoes them and shoves the material down his legs.  She takes him in hand, stroking him as she bites along the edge of his jaw.  She listens to the way his breath catches, the breathy little moans he makes.

 

“The Empress may have consorts  _ and _ a husband in Porth,” she says.  “She can fuck who she wants, take as many lovers as she wants.”  She squeezes him tighter and his breath catches.

 

“The same isn’t true of Asgard,” she whispers into his ear.  She bites down on his earlobe.  “The queen is loyal to her husband.  She belongs to him alone.”  She feels his fingertips biting into her hips.  She strokes him several more times and then raises up, positioning him at her entrance before slowly lowering herself on him.  She takes him bit by bit until she’s flush against him.  His breath hisses through his teeth.

 

She captures his earlobe in her teeth again, worrying it lightly.  She tightens around him without moving.  “Would you still be loyal to me, Steve?”

 

“Always,” he swears vehemently, his hands kneading her hips.

 

She groans, her fingernails biting into his shoulders, her back arching as she starts to move on him.  “Even if I belonged to another?”

 

His fingers bite into her hips, slamming her down against him.  “Yes,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.

 

She leans forward, kissing along his clenched jaw, her hand cupping the back of his head, tangling in the hair at his nape as she continues to move on him.  “You’d stand aside and watch me fuck another man?” she asks.  “For the sake of having powerful allies?”

 

His teeth grind together audibly and he turns his head away.  “If that’s what you wanted.”

 

She grabs his jaw and forces him to look at her.  She kisses him again, hard, biting at his lips.  “Would you watch my belly swell with his children?”

 

He growls, biting her shoulder, causing her breath to hiss between her teeth.  He twists, toppling her back on the bed, covering her and driving into her.  She wraps her legs around his waist, raking her nails down his back, whimpering his name as she comes.  He follows right behind her, groaning as he drives into her a final time.

 

He rests against her for a long moment and then curses, rolling over onto his back.  

 

Peggy stares up at the ceiling.  “I wouldn’t count on a career as a poker player,” she says dryly.  “You’re a shit liar, Steve.”

 

She climbs over him, standing in the middle of her bedroom as she finishes removing clothes.  On the bed, Steve sits up and finishes undressing as well.  He’s quiet and she knows she made her point quite effectively.

 

Naked, she stands in front of him.  He won’t look up at her.  She presses at his shoulder and he takes the hint, laying down in the bed, making room for her.  Under the covers, she tucks herself against his side, her palm splayed over his heart.

 

He presses a kiss to her forehead.  “What are you going to do?”

 

“Right now, nothing,” she says flatly.  “No terms have been officially set forth.  I’ll wait and see.”

 

He sighs, his arm tightening around her and she knows he’s every bit as unhappy about this option as she is.  Peggy isn’t naive.  She’s fucked men for money for years.  She could certainly bed the prince of Asgard if it meant securing the future of the Empire.  

 

But it isn’t just sex they’re contemplating.  It’s a marriage, no matter how clinical.  And while she was pushing Steve’s buttons earlier, she was also being completely honest.  In Porth, the Empress is not bound to monogamy.  She can have only one husband, an official bond which cannot be dissolved.  But it does not preclude her from having lovers or consorts.  In Asgard, however, monogamy is an explicit condition of marriage, especially on the part of the Queen.  She would be faithful to her husband, and bear his children.

 

Peggy could do it.  She could marry the prince, remain loyal to him, have his children.  She’s mercenary enough.  And she probably wouldn’t hesitate if it meant being able to wrest her Empire from Obadiah Stane without a war.

 

But the fact that her life with the prince would be conducted in full view of Steve - that’s the part she’s not certain she could comply with.  She doesn’t have faith that she could know he was there, and not go to him, not take comfort in his arms.  He has become so vital to her existence.

 

She tilts her head up and he kisses her softly.  She cups his cheek and he shifts, rolling toward her so they’re on their sides, chest to chest.  He touches her so gently, his fingertips trailing over her skin.  She deepens the kiss, whispering his name.  He pulls back and kisses at her cheek, at the tears she wasn’t aware of having shed.

 

“I love you, Peggy,” he whispers, rolling her onto her back, sliding into her.

 

She wraps herself around him, holding him close as he rocks against her.  She can’t say the words.  But she tells him with everything that she is, that she is his.  For all the myriad ways she has been had by men over the years, no one has ever had her like this - giving of herself completely and freely.

 

* * *

 

Afterward, he curls around her, holding her tightly.  “What did Varys give you?  Who wants to see you?”

 

“My brother, Michael,” she says softly.  “It was my favorite toy, when we were children.  He used to hide it from me, to drive me mad.”

 

He’s quiet.  “Your brother is here in Londinium?”   
  


She sighs.  “So it would seem.  Unless it’s one of Stane’s traps.  Though I don’t know how he would know the significance of that ratty old dragon.”

 

* * *

 

The meeting is on the outskirts of the city proper, in an old warehouse district that is slowly being turned into upscale lofts and art studios.  The address is for a sprawling building that used to house a garment factory.

 

Steve bangs on the door and then stands in front of Peggy.  Jack opens the door and they all stare at each other for a moment.  He steps aside and nods for them to enter.

 

Jack takes off down the hall and Peggy follows.  Steve catches her arm, frowning at her.  

 

“It’s okay,” she says to Steve.  “He’s Porthi.”

 

Steve stares down at her, nonplussed.  “You knew.”

 

“Yes, I knew,” she says, turning away, following Jack’s retreating form.  She hears Steve curse under his breath, but he follows.

 

The conversation in the room stops and all of the dozen or so men are on their feet as soon as Peggy enters the room.  All of them, including Jack, bow their heads to her.  One of them lifts his head and looks at her, meeting and holding her gaze.

 

“Michael?”

 

He crosses the room to her.  She wants to move, but it feels like her feet are rooted to the floor.  He stops directly in front of her, his expression anxious, his eyes glassy.  None of it seems real.  The last time she saw him, he was on the cusp of adulthood, lanky and awkward.  Like an overgrown puppy with hands and feet out of proportion to his body.  But now he’s a man.  And he looks like he bears the weight of the world on his shoulders.  “Peggy?”

 

She reaches out for him and he wraps her in his arms, holding her so tight.  She’s sobbing silently, her face buried against his neck as she clutches him tight.  His hand cups the back of her head, holding her.   

 

Eventually she pulls back, holding his face in her hands, staring at him in wonder.  “ _ Michael. _ ”

 

He nods, pulling her close again, against his side.  He turns her to face the room.  “You know Jack,” he says.

 

Peggy nods.

 

She knows Daniel and Jason.  The rest, Michael introduces.  Dugan, Jones, Morita, Falsworth, Dernier, Pinkerton, Li and Ramirez.  “They’re your personal guard,” Michael says quietly.  He holds her gaze again.  “The Empress’s personal guard.”

 

Peggy steps back from Michael, looking around the room.  They all meet her gaze, but their postures are deferential.

 

“Stane executed Grandmother’s guard,” Michael says quietly.  “These men are from the families that have been sworn to the Carters for generations.  God willing, one day their daughters will follow in their footsteps.”

 

Peggy nods sharply.  She turns then to Steve, who steps forward.  “This is Steve Rogers,” she says. 

 

“Rogers,” Michael says, holding out his hand.  He gives Steve a firm handshake.  “You’re Porthi?”

 

Steve nods.  “I am.  My grandmother was a royal scholar, bound to the Carters.”

 

Michael nods, but is clearly still wary.  Peggy understands why.  One glance at Steve is enough to confirm that he’s at least partially swayback.  On Porth, he would automatically be excluded from a situation like this.  He would never be allowed audience with the Empress, much less to be such an intimate part of her life.  Peggy wonders how much Jack told Michael about Steve, or if he told him anything at all.

 

“Steve is the Captain of my Guard,” Peggy says with a finality that brooks no response.

 

Michael’s gaze snaps to hers.  She has the impression he wants to argue, but he holds his tongue.  He nods and then says, “Perhaps we could have a word privately.”

 

Peggy nods and Michael takes her hand, leading her across the cavernous room.  Peggy eventually pulls her hand away, crossing her arms over her chest as she faces her brother.  “Given who you brought with you,” she says, “it seems you’re intent on my return.”

 

Michael nods, blinking quickly.  “I’m afraid I made a mess of things, Peg.”  He looks at her, his features pinched with misery.  He takes a deep breath and exhales sharply.  “After you left, Stane used Dottie.  Pretended she was you.  He executed almost everyone who knew the truth.  Those who remained were too scared to speak out.”  He swallows thickly.  “ _ I _ was too scared.”

 

“Michael,” Peggy says softly.

 

He shakes his head, getting himself under control.  “As we got closer to your thirtieth birthday, it was clear that Stane wasn’t going to be able to get rid of the Council, though he tried for years.  But it was no use.  None of his machinations worked with them.”  Michael looks at her, frowning.  “I’m afraid I played right into his hand.”

 

“How?” Peggy asks warily.

 

Michael looks up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy.  “He needed a Carter heir.  A daughter of Diana’s line.”  He swallows thickly.  “Dottie and I.  We ...”  He trails off, clearly shamed.  “Dottie and I have a child.”

 

“A daughter?” Peggy asks.

 

Michael shakes his head.  “A son,” he says bitterly.  “John.  Much to Stane’s regret.  No daughter to carry on the line.  No daughter in whose stead he could rule.”

 

Peggy waits.  Michael is upset and clearly getting moreso the longer they talk.  He blinks quickly.  “Stane has my son, Peggy,” he says, looking at her, his voice a bare whisper.  “He’s poisoning him.  Just as he did Grandmother.”

 

Peggy’s eyes prick with tears and she curses, grabbing Michael’s arm.

 

Michael shakes his head.  “He’s just a boy,” he says, clearly in agony.  “He’s dying, Peggy.  He’s all I have.”

 

Peggy crosses her arms over her chest and bows her head.  “Stane knows you’re here.  He sent you.”

 

Michael nods.  “He says your return to Porth is the only way to save John.”

 

Peggy nods.  “Is Stane here?  In the city?  Now?”

 

Michael nods, clearly ashamed.  “At the Porth embassy.  He’s expecting you.”

 

“And my personal guard?” Peggy asks tightly.  “Did he send them too?”

 

Michael shakes his head.  “Stane doesn’t know about them, Peggy.  I swear.  They are loyal to you, to Porth.  Jack had been searching for you for nearly a year at my request.”  Michael wrings his hands together.  “I hate Stane so much, Peggy.  But he has my boy.”

 

Peggy hugs him tightly.  “It’s okay, Michael.  I’ll figure out some way to fix this.”

 

* * *

 

“Your nephew,” Steve says.  

 

He’s holding the picture Michael gave her, of John, apparently taken before the poisoning started.  Michael said he was ten months old in the picture, sitting in Dottie’s lap, smiling widely.  He has the Carter coloring, the huge brown eyes and a tuft of dark hair.  It apparently wasn’t long after the picture was taken that he fell ill.  According to Michael, it’s been going on for nearly a year, stealing a tiny bit of her nephew every day.

 

Peggy and Steve are back in the city center.  It’s midday and they are in one of the public gardens that ring the shopping district.  Alone.  Peggy’s personal guard wanted to escort her, but she strictly forbade it.  She trusts her brother implicitly, but she doesn’t know the guards.  She certainly doesn’t want them at her back when walking into a confrontation with Stane.

 

Peggy takes a breath.  “John is dying.”

 

“And you believe Michael?”

 

Peggy looks over her shoulder, frowning at Steve.  “Yes, I believe my brother.”

 

Steve crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair.  “Stane suspecting you will make a play for the throne is one thing,” he says.  “You walking right into his trap is another.”

 

“I have no intention of walking into his trap, Steve,” she says tightly.  “And what would you have me do?  Let a little boy die a slow, wasting death?  I watched my grandmother die that way.  It was horrible.”

 

“One child, or the fate of the Empire,” Steve says, meeting her gaze.

 

She shakes her head and looks away.  “The fate of the Empire has often rested on one child.  This is  _ my _ fault,” she snaps.  “Stane orchestrated this because I was gone.  Because I ran away.”

 

“Peggy - “  He reaches out for her.

 

She stands, taking several steps away from him, putting herself out of his reach.  She narrows her gaze as she looks down at him.  “I’m going to the Porth embassy,” she says.  “Today.  To set the terms of my return.”

 

“ _ The fuck _ ,” he curses, surging to his feet.  “Are you insane?”

 

She turns away, stalking toward the streetcar stop.  She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following.  Peggy boards the streetcar, holding onto one of the handholds.  It’s packed with tourists and commuters heading to the West End, where many of the diplomatic embassies are located.  She’s jostled through several stops.  

 

She stares out the window, looking at nothing.  She’s an aunt.  Michael has a son.  And John was born, only to be tortured.  Because he’s a Carter.  Because of her.  

 

There’s a stop and Peggy is aware of another commuter standing very close to her, his hand on the bar scant inches from her own.  She looks up at Steve who frowns down at her.  She shifts slightly, leaning into him and he hooks his free thumb through her belt loop.

 

* * *

 

“Peggy,” Stane says warmly, his voice booming in the cavernous space.  “Welcome home, my love.”  He holds out his arms and Peggy stares at him across the room, her arms crossed over her chest.

 

She fights back the wave of nausea.  Hearing his voice, seeing him, is like a body blow.  Against her will, she starts to tremble with nerves.  He’s older, but not old.  Not feeble.  He’s an enormous man, larger than life.  Not larger than Steve, though, thankfully.

 

Stane gives her a dark smile and ventures closer.  Steve steps around Peggy, situating himself between her and Stane.

 

Stane chuckles.  “A swayback,” he says, amused.  “I heard you’d become a whore, Peggy, but even at that, he’s still beneath you.  Just imagine what your grandmother would say.”

 

“She wouldn’t say anything,” Peggy snaps.  “You murdered her.”

 

Stane frowns at her, like she’s being overly dramatic.  “I take it Michael spoke with you, told you about young John.”

 

Peggy grinds her teeth together.  “He did.”

 

Stane shakes his head.  “Such a pity,” he says with mock concern.  “The poison is slow.  And painful.”  He smiles at Peggy again.  “And the antidote is so rare.  Did you know there’s only one vial in all of Porth?  It would be a shame if something were to happen to it before it could be administered to the little boy.”

 

“You’re a bastard.”

 

“Undoubtedly,” he says, unconcerned.  “But you  _ will _ do as I command, Peggy.”

 

“What do you want from me?” she demands.

 

“Everything,” he says simply.  “I want everything.”  He smiles and an unholy glee lights his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Peggy sits on the couch in her living room.  It’s night and none of the lights are on, but the city lights stream through the windows.  Next to her, Steve sits silently.  He didn’t say a word through her entire conversation with Stane. 

 

“He didn’t seem ... sane,” Steve finally says.

 

“No,” Peggy agrees, “he didn’t.”

 

“Was he always like that?”

 

She shrugs.  “Given the things he did, one assumes, yes, to some degree.  But I don’t remember it being quite that unbridled.”

 

“Two weeks,” he says.  “That barely gives us time to make it back to the Empire.”

 

“I know,” she says.  “And we have to figure out how to coordinate with Asgard, if we can manage to negotiate their help.”

 

“I have some ideas about that,” he says.

 

She looks over at him.  “What?”

 

He rises to his feet.  “I need to go see some people,” he says.  “I’ll be back.”  He leans down and kisses her.  “We’ll make this right, Peggy.”

 

* * *

 

It’s late and she’s been asleep when Steve slides beneath the covers.  She’s tired, but he kisses her jaw and she pulls him close.  “What did you find out?” she asks.

 

He nuzzles against her.  “I found a shortcut back to the Empire, but we need to make a stop along the way.”

 

She nips at his lips, twining her leg around his.

 

“You need to sleep,” he says.

 

She makes a plaintive noise, pulling him closer.  “Make love to me.”

 

He pauses a moment and laughs silently, something she can feel, rather than hear.  “Whatever you want, Peggy.”

  
  


* * *

 

The following morning, Peggy, Steve and Sif stand on a hill far outside the boundaries of Londinium proper.  The only structures for miles are farmhouses.  They’re accompanied by Michael, Jack, Dugan and Morita.

 

“Heimdall,” Sif calls.  “We’re ready.”

 

**END CHAPTER**


	9. Chapter 9

Peggy takes a few stumbling steps.  Steve reaches out and steadies her.  Looking around, she takes note of the giant metallic dome and the rainbow bridge spread out before them.  Along with the legion of Einherjar, elite Asgardian warriors.

 

The Porthi are escorted politely, but firmly, to private quarters in the sprawling Asgardian royal palace.  Peggy has been here once before, as a child, with her grandmother.  Seeing the palace with adult eyes in no way makes it less impressive.

 

The suite contains a central room and a half dozen private bedrooms.  They congregate in the central room.  Morita is unpacking books, setting them out on a long table.  Steve adds several more to the pile.

 

Peggy picks up one of the books, examining the spine.  “What are we looking for?”

 

Gingerly, Morita plucks the book out of her grasp.  “Anything that will be useful with either Asgard or the Council.”

 

Peggy arches an eyebrow.  That sounds frustratingly vague.

 

Thanks to the wonders of Asgardian transportation, they have days to both negotiate with Asgard and plan for the confrontation with Stane.  Fury and the remainder of Peggy’s private guard are en route, but it will be at least five days before they arrive from Londinium.  After that, they will head to Porth for Peggy’s coronation ceremony, and whatever hells Stane has planned for them.

 

Steve and Morita sit down at the table, cracking open texts.  Jack joins them, though he looks considerably less familiar with the process.  Peggy doesn’t miss the fact that he takes a seat farthest from Steve.  Whatever vocation Jack has on Porth, he’s not a scholar.  Peggy assumes he’s not a guard either as it clearly is not his strongest skillset.

 

There is a knock on the suite’s doors and Dugan opens them, admitting Sif.  Behind her are two women, carrying changes of clothes.  “My lady,” Sif says.  “You and your brother have been invited to dine with the King and Queen.”

 

Peggy nods.

 

One of the women lays the clothes out in Peggy’s bedchamber, and then goes into the attached bathroom and draws a bath.  “Do you require assistance, milady?” the woman asks.

 

Peggy shakes her head.  “No.  Thank you.”

 

The woman leaves and Peggy stands there, staring at the gown.  It’s gorgeous.  Crimson silk of exquisite quality.  She hears the door to the suite open again, but doesn’t bother to look.  Steve rests his hands lightly at her hips, drawing her against his chest.  She sags back against him, exhausted.  “This is all happening so fast.”

 

He sighs. “We need more time to plan.”

 

“We don’t have it.”

 

“No,” he agrees.  “We don’t.”

 

She turns in his embrace and looks up at him.  She touches his cheek lightly.  He leans down, kissing her gently.  Closing her eyes, she leans into it for a moment.  But then she forces herself to pull back. Going into this meeting hot and bothered about Steve is not advisable.

 

“Go,” she says, shooing him to the door.  “Find some loophole to save us.”

 

* * *

 

Peggy takes her time in the bath, marveling at the luxury of it.  Her apartment on Londinum was nice, but it doesn’t have anything on an Asgardian guest room.  Wrapped in her towel, she artfully arranges her hair on top of her head, accentuating the long lines of her neck.  The gown is sleeveless and low cut, displaying her ample cleavage.  Peggy has to pin one of the shoulders, to hide the clearly visible bite mark she got from Steve several days earlier.

 

The gown’s particular shade of crimson glows like liquid rubies against her skin.  There are high slits on either side, displaying a lot of leg when she walks.  She understands the point of this meeting, and the point of the dress.  Still, it’s a little much.  And more than a little reminiscent of her days as a companion.

 

She teased Steve about finding a loophole to save them.  She suspects this dress will serve those ends better than all of his and Morita’s books combined.

 

When she’s ready, she steps out into the common room.  Michael is waiting and gives her a tight smile.  Everyone else in the room stops and stares.  Most of them look stunned.  

 

Steve looks ... hungry.

 

Peggy turns to Michael, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.  “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Odin and Frigga are, more or less, what Peggy expected.  Odin is a curmudgeon, acerbic and aggressive.  Many times during dinner he purposely baits Peggy.  She has more than ample experience managing grouchy old men and she deals with him tidily, while still appeasing his ego.  As the end of the dinner nears, Peggy thinks he’s actually quite taken with her.  Certainly he is taken with his plan.

 

Frigga is considerably more reserved, calculating.  It’s clear she’s spent years playing peacemaker between her husband and her son.  Peggy doubts Frigga is as sold on the idea of arranging a marriage for Thor as Odin is, but she goes along with her husband’s wishes.  What the Allfather wants, the Allfather gets.

 

Michael is cordial, answering their pointed questions about the current state of the Porth Empire.  Most of what he says is a revelation to Peggy.  His descriptions tear at her heart.  The Empire has faltered while Stane and the Council have warred for control.  Her people have suffered terribly.

 

When the conversation turns to Peggy’s personal history, she answers their questions bluntly.  She makes it clear that she was a companion and she is unashamed of this fact.  Neither Odin nor Frigga seem particularly scandalized by her former occupation.  An Empress with a sordid past is still an Empress.  And Peggy knows Thor is no cowering virgin.

 

After dinner, there are drinks and conversation.  They retire to a courtyard on one of the sprawling palace terrace gardens.  Michael and Odin sit by a roaring fire, discussing politics.  Or rather, Odin regails Michael with tales of battles long past.

 

Frigga takes Peggy aside and they walk along the edge of the garden, which has stunning views of Asgard.  Peggy takes another drink of sweet wine and asks, “Does Thor know about this proposition?”

 

Frigga looks over at her, smiling wryly.  “He does,” she admits.  “My son is ... not overly enthusiastic about the idea of marriage.”

 

“Ah,” Peggy says, “well, I guess that explains the gown.”

 

Frigga looks her over from head to toe, arching an eyebrow.  “Quite.”

 

As if on cue, Peggy hears a noise and turns, watching Thor walk across the garden.  There is no doubt as to his identity.  

 

He is an impressively large man.  Larger, even, than Steve, which is no small feat.  His blond hair is tied back, to keep it out of his face, but appears to fall to his shoulders.  On a lesser man, it might look feminine.  It does not look feminine on Thor.

 

Peggy gets glimpses of his armor as he moves, but it’s all covered by a coarse gray cloak.  She thinks that primarily, he looks tired.  It’s a sensation she understands.

 

Thor’s eyes rake over her as he approaches and there is clear approval in his gaze.  He takes her hand and bows over it as his mother makes the introductions.  “My lady,” he says.

 

“My lord,” Peggy replies.

 

He smiles, seeming in spite of himself.  “Call me Thor,” he says conspiratorially.  “It seems we should be on a first name basis.”  He glances over at his father, his lips pursed together.  Peggy has the impression that he came here to tell them all off and ... reconsidered.

 

Frigga makes her excuses and leaves them alone, in the secluded corner of the garden.  Peggy takes the opportunity to draw Thor into conversation.  It’s not difficult.  He is an incredibly vital creature, gregarious and outspoken.  Unlike Steve, Thor does not seem particularly stoic or measured.  He likes to laugh, and brawl, and drink, she learns, as he pours her more wine and finds a goblet for himself.

 

Peggy realizes somewhere after the second cup of wine that she likes Thor quite a bit.  Like Steve, Thor is smarter than his physique would lead one to believe.  She already knows he would not be a terribly devoted husband.  But probably an enjoyable bed partner.  He would be forever gone, brawling in distant lands.  If she married him, Peggy could probably live a life largely unencumbered by a husband’s demands.  She would be free to spend her time repairing the Empire.

 

It is late when Thor escorts her to the door of the suite.  Michael made his exit some hours earlier.  She opens the door, and is standing in the threshold as Thor takes her hand, pressing a kiss to the back.  “Until tomorrow,” he says.

 

She nods, smiling.  She steps inside the suite and closes the door.  Morita, Jack and Steve are all still sitting at the table.  They’ve been joined by Michael, who rises to his feet.  

 

“How was it?” he asks.

 

She gives him a tight smile.  “We can discuss it in the morning.”  

 

She turns and heads into her room, closing the door.  It’s dark, but there is a large balcony.  She steps out into the night air, bracing her hands on the stone railing as she stares out at the twinkling lights of Asgard.

 

Steve joins her, leaning back against the railing right next to her, watching her in the dim light.  She looks up at him and he leans down, kissing her hungrily.  She wraps her arms around his neck and he pulls her close, his hands roaming over her body.

 

In a fluid move, he scoops her into his arms and carries her to the bed.  Peggy clings to him, anticipation and excitement curling in her belly.  Gently, he lays her on the bed.  He kneels between her legs, looking down at her as his hands find her bare knees and coast upwards.  His fingers play over the garter that holds her stiletto and he smiles.  He hikes yards of crimson silk up to her waist, and lowers himself to his stomach, kissing along her inner thigh.  

 

Peggy shifts on the bed, splaying her legs wider, giving him better access.  He continues to kiss the sensitive flesh of her thigh as his fingers play lightly over the garter and knife.  He unsheathes the stiletto and uses it to cut away the silk of her panties.  And then he’s there, licking and kissing her.  Peggy yelps, arching against him.

 

“Please, Steve,” she begs.

 

He seems intent on making a point, giving her what she wants time and time again.  She finally rolls away from him, curling onto her side, spent and trembling.  

 

He pushes himself up from the bed, stripping out of his clothes and then crawling over her on all fours.  He nips along the top of her shoulder.  He tears at the pin she placed earlier, ripping the dress, baring her mark.  He kisses it, rolling her onto her stomach before hooking his arm under her hips, pulling her up on her knees.  His knees between hers force her stance wider and she pushes herself up on her hands, arching back against him as he slides into her.  He sets a demanding pace and she whimpers, pushing back to meet his thrusts.  He growls, his teeth sinking into the nape of her neck, hard.  She shudders, tightening around him and he groans deep in his throat, releasing his bite on her as he surges against her a final time.

 

**END CHAPTER**


	10. Chapter 10

Steve is up and gone by the time Peggy rolls out of bed.  She was vaguely aware of him leaving, giving him a sloppy, sleep muddled kiss.  She bathes and changes into an Asgard appropriate outfit that has been left for her convenience.  It is another flowing silk gown of deepest amethyst.  Peggy leaves her hair long and loose and she wraps a soft beige shawl around her shoulders.  Both go a considerable way toward camouflaging all of the love bites and bruises she acquired last night.

 

Steve may be mentally in favor of an alliance with Asgard, but it’s fairly clear that on a more primal level, he’s not on board at all.  He does not want to share her affections with anyone, alliances be damned.  If he starts peeing on her belongings, she’s going to banish him to his own room.

 

Peggy steps out into the central room.  Steve, Michael and all of her guards are there, eating breakfast.  Peggy picks up the carafe of coffee and looks at Steve.  “How is it?”

 

He shrugs, unimpressed.  She frowns, but pours herself a cup.  She wraps the shawl tighter around herself and walks out onto the large terrace.  Asgard is bustling with activity.  

 

Michael joins her.  “Do you think this is advisable?” he asks tightly.

 

“Do I think  _ what _ is advisable?”  Peggy knows precisely what he’s going to say, but she is not accustomed to anyone having input into how she lives her life.  And she has no intention of starting.

 

He frowns at her.  “Bedding your swayback lover under your betrothed’s roof,” he says shortly.

 

She takes a drink of coffee.  “Thor’s not my betrothed, Michael.  He’s a man who might be willing to fuck me in order to appease his father.”

 

“ _ Peggy _ .”

 

She gives him a hard look.  “Don’t dress it up in euphemisms.  It is what it is, a calculated arrangement that may be beneficial to both of us.  My entire life is nothing but the blink of an eye to him.  What does he care?”

 

Michael frowns.  “Temporary and unromantic it may be, but you can’t think that Thor would find your behavior acceptable.”

 

Arching an eyebrow at him, she smiles darkly.  “And I suppose you think the prince spent his night alone, then?”

 

He grumbles, but concedes, “Probably not.”

 

“Indeed,” she says pertly.

 

Steve walks out onto the terrace, coffee cup in hand.  “What’s going on?”

 

Peggy looks at him.  “Michael is just offering the helpful suggestion that I refrain from fucking you while we’re trying to barter me off to the Asgardians.”

 

Michael purses his lips together tightly, blushing.  

 

Steve’s expression is placid as he takes a drink of coffee.  “Well, let me know what you decide.”

 

Michael looks like he’d like to throttle both of them.  He turns and stalks back inside.  

 

Peggy looks at Steve, trying to keep her expression stern, but she laughs.  “You’re terrible.”

 

He smiles.  “So are you.”  

 

Peggy finishes her coffee and heads for the door, breezing past Michael.  Steve follows her.  “Where are we going?”

 

“I’m supposed to meet Frigga in the gardens this morning.”

 

He falls into step with her, maintaining a respectable distance.  He looks out of place in his jeans and t-shirt in the palace halls.  “So how was last night?” he asks quietly.

 

Peggy shrugs.  “It was fine.  He didn’t immediately refuse the idea, so I suppose that’s something.”

 

Steve glances over at her for a long moment.  “Did you like him?”

 

“Like him?” Peggy asks, considering.   “He’s charismatic.  And the crown prince of Asgard.  That’s not nothing.  He has a standing army at his disposal that easily dwarfs anything Stane could muster.”

 

They enter the gardens, which are even more impressive by day than they were at night.  There are enormous trees which provide ample shade.  It does not appear that Frigga has arrived.  Peggy walks to the circular conversation area where Michael and Odin sat last night.  She takes a seat while Steve paces.

 

Steve is pointedly not looking at her.  “Did you want him?”

 

Peggy leans back, considering his question carefully.  “Thor is attractive,” she says, watching Steve for a reaction.  His jaw tightens.  She sighs.  “You don’t have to be here for this, you know.  It seems unnecessarily cruel.”

 

He looks at her.  “I’m not leaving you.  I already told you that.”

 

“I know what you said,” she says gently.  “But have you thought this through?”

 

He gives her a hard look that says he’s done little except think about this.

 

“What happens if I do marry him, Steve?” she asks.  “How do you plan on spending our wedding night?  Pacing the corridor outside the bedroom listening to us?  Even if you remained my personal guard, you would be explicitly forbidden from interfering in any aspect of my marriage.”

 

He looks away and she can practically hear his teeth grind together.  “And what about you?” he asks.  “Maybe I’m not the only one who would have trouble respecting boundaries.”

 

“That is a completely valid point,” she agrees.

 

He looks at her, shocked.

 

She gives him a tight smile and rises to stand.  She crosses the space to him, standing very close, looking up at him.  “I would have an incredibly hard time staying away from you.  Michael’s right.  It’s ridiculous for me to be involved with you right now.  It’s dangerous.  And stupid.  I can marry Thor, but I won’t stop wanting you.”  

 

She looks away and takes a deep breath.  “I don’t love him.  I won’t ever love him.  But my wedding vows would preclude me from having you.”  She looks up at him again.  “And I’m not sure I’m strong enough to stay away, especially if you’re so close.”

 

He leans down and kisses her.  She kisses him back fiercely before forcing herself away.  She shakes her head.  “That’s exactly what I mean.”  She sets her jaw, looking at him.  “Right now, supporting me means none of ...”  She motions between them.  “ _ This.” _

 

“No fucking,” he says bluntly.

 

She looks away, sighing.  “It’s not just the fucking, Steve.  It hasn’t been the fucking for a long time.”

 

He takes a deep breath and exhales sharply.  “So I’m being punished because you care about me?”

 

She looks at him.  “Don’t martyr yourself,” she says flatly.  “It’s difficult on both of us.”

 

“Yeah,” he says with a bitter laugh.  “Screwing the prince of Asgard.  I bet that’s a real hardship.”

 

“Are you serious?” she demands.  “You think, after the life I’ve lived, that I don’t know the difference between fucking someone and making love with someone?”

 

He blinks at her dumbly.

 

“You are the  _ first _ person I have ever had a problem staying away from.  Ever.  And in case I wasn’t clear, left to my own devices, I will  _ always _ choose the person I love over someone with a nice pair of shoulders.”

 

“Peggy,” he says quietly, stepping closer.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t - “

 

“No you didn’t,” she snaps, pulling her hand back before he can reach for it.

 

“Is everything okay here?”

 

Peggy and Steve both turn to see Thor standing there, watching them.  His expression is guarded.

 

“Everything is perfectly fine,” Peggy says with a smile.  “The Captain of my personal guard was simply escorting me here to meet your mother.”

 

Thor smiles, seeming unconvinced.  “Mother has been pulled away.  She asked me to show you around the city this morning.”

 

Peggy forces a smile.  “Lovely,” she say, reaching out and taking Thor’s proffered arm.  She doesn’t bother looking at Steve.

 

* * *

 

It’s early evening when Thor leaves her at the doors of the suite.  He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek that leaves her blushing in spite of all her experience.  Murmuring her goodbyes, she enters the suite.

 

Michael, Steve, Jack and Morita are at the table again, sorting through texts.  They have stacks of notepads covered with writings.  Peggy crosses the room to the sideboard and pours herself a glass of wine before sinking down into one of the chairs, reaching for a notepad.

 

“What have you found to help us?” she asks, frowning at the notes.

 

“Not a whole lot,” Jack says, leaning back in his chair.  “The Empire was pretty evenly divided between the Empress and the Council.  Checks and balances.”

 

“Yeah,” Morita says, “but Stane has gutted so much of the Imperial infrastructure that even when we get rid of him, it’s going to take decades to rebuild.  In the interim, the Council is going to have incredible power.”

 

Peggy shrugs, taking a drink.  “Better the Council than Stane.”

 

“That’s true enough,” Michael agrees.

 

“The rest of it,” Morita says, “is completely clear cut.  Once you take the throne, there’s nothing Stane can do in any legitimate capacity to retain power.”

 

“So what is he trying to accomplish?” Peggy asks, rubbing her forehead.  “Why force me home?  Surely he can’t think I will be any more lenient with him than the Council would be.”

 

“He’s nuts,” Dugan calls from where he’s lying on a sofa with a pillow over his head.

 

“Indeed,” Michael agrees.  “And he has John.  Maybe he thinks that will be enough to keep you under his thumb.”

 

Peggy knows the futility in trying to understand the logic of a madman.  There is literally nothing she would put past Stane.  There doesn’t seem to be any way he can hope to keep control, or his life.  And a man with nothing to lose is incredibly dangerous.

 

Peggy tosses down the notepad and reaches for another, taking a drink.  “What’s this?” she asks.  

 

Morita looks at her in question and she shows him the front of the notepad.  “Oh,” he says, “Porthi marriage law.  We were wondering if there were parts of it which were incompatible with Asgardian law.”

 

“And?” she asks.

 

“The obvious,” Morita says, “Asgardian marriages are monogamous.”  He glances at Steve and then quickly back to his notepad.  “Aside from that, the marriage terms are similar.  A lifelong bond which cannot be dissolved.”  He shrugs.  “There’s more nuance in the Porthi definition of marriage, but they’re not incompatible.

 

Peggy takes another drink.  “What kind of nuance?” she asks, studying the text.  Diana never married, so it wasn’t something that was stressed as Peggy was growing up.  But Peggy knew her own mother had married and the concept fascinated her as a child.

 

“Porthi marriage has three tenets,” Morita explains.

 

“Yes,” Peggy says dryly, “a wedding ring, consummation of the marriage, and a child.”

 

“Well,” Morita says, frowning, “yes and no.”

 

Peggy sets the notepad down.  “What does that mean?”

 

“Those three are definitely the most common way of solidifying a marriage.”

 

“But ..” Peggy prompts.

 

“But they’re not the only way,” he says.  He shakes his head, exasperated.  “Porthi law is ... complex, and much of it is rooted in mystical tradition.  The three tenets of marriage are actually the presentation and acceptance of a gift, the sharing of a dream, and the mixing of blood.  They’re often interpreted to mean a wedding ring, a wedding night, and a child, but they don’t have to.  They can be taken completely literally.”

 

Peggy looks at Steve who seems so intent on not meeting her gaze that she knows he’s guilty of something.  She crosses her legs, feeling the garter that holds her stiletto dig into her thigh.  She looks at the notepad, at the three lines.  

 

The presentation and acceptance of a gift.  Her stiletto certainly fits that description.  

 

She looks at the second line, a shared dream.  She’s dreamed of Steve, specific dreams.  Dreams of places she doesn’t know.  Did he share the same dream?  She glances at him and he still won’t look at her.

 

She figures it’s entirely possible they’ve shared a dream and he didn’t tell her.  Even if they didn’t share a dream, they’ve consummated the hell out of their relationship.  

 

The final line, the mixing of blood.  She looks at the palm of her hand.  Despite being a deep wound, the scar is light.  Cho said it was probably because she pressed it against Steve’s wounded arm.  Peggy somehow got some bit of his swayback enhanced healing abilities.  So surely their blood mixed.  

 

“So these can be taken completely literally?” Peggy asks.

 

Morita nods.  “Yeah.  But there’s no corresponding tradition on Asgard.  It would be binding on Porth, but not here.  You really need it to be legal in both traditions.”

 

Peggy stares at the notepad.  Morita is a decent scholar.  But it’s not his vocation.  Steve’s better.  

 

He knew.  

 

Just like the whole goddamn consort thing, he knew.  And he didn’t tell her.

 

“Excuse me,” Peggy says tightly, pushing herself to her feet and heading for her bedchamber.

 

* * *

 

She’s standing on the balcony again, watching the setting sun.  She hears the door to her bedchamber open and close and she bristles, knowing who it is.

 

“Peggy,” he says gently.

 

“Fuck you,” she snaps, without turning to face him.

 

“ _ Peggy _ .”  He touches her shoulder lightly.

 

She rounds on him, glaring.

 

He looks at her, his expression tight.

 

“You fucking knew,” she seethes.  “You  _ knew _ we completed that goddamn ceremony and you didn’t even mention it to me.”

 

He purses his lips together, but doesn’t speak.

 

“Will you take me dancing, Steve?” she demands.  When he looks at her, she asks in an icy tone, “What have you been waiting on?”

 

He closes his eyes, screwing them together for a moment before opening them and looking at her.  “The right partner.”

 

Tears prick her eyes and her throat aches.  “You bastard!”

 

He paces in a tight circle, clearly frustrated.  “Just like with the consort bond, the fact that the ritual was performed means  _ nothing _ unless you choose to acknowledge it publically.”

 

“How the fuck am I supposed to acknowledge something that I don’t know exists, Steve?” she demands.

 

He growls, raking a hand through his hair.  “Peggy, this isn’t like me being your consort.  This is  _ forever _ .  And while it may not bind you to monogamy, it does mean you can never marry again.  Ever.”

 

“So what?” she yells.

 

“You’re the Porthi Empress, Peggy. You can forge alliances through marriage.  We’ll get rid of Stane.  We will.  But the Empire is in rough shape.  It needs help.  Hell, you know that.  It’s why we’re here now.”

 

“I certainly wouldn’t be pursuing a marriage to Thor if I knew I was already married,” she snaps.

 

Steve blinks at her, looking defeated.  “Why not?” he asks quietly.  “You don’t have to acknowledge it, Peggy.  I am not an asset to you.  I’m not an asset to the Empire.  My own mother didn’t want me.”

 

Peggy’s taken aback.  She blinks at him.  “What?”

 

He shrugs.  “Sarah didn’t die.  She just didn’t want me.  I was an embarrassing reminder of a regrettable night she had with some swayback.  I didn’t even have the decency to be born a daughter who could carry on her line.  She abandoned me, and my grandmother took me in.  Sarah’s still on Porth as far as I know.  I haven’t seen her since I was a child.”

 

Peggy drags a hand through her hair, looking at him, stunned.  “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.  “That’s awful.”

 

He shrugs again, taking a breath.  “My goal, my  _ only _ goal, is to keep you safe.  And being married to me doesn’t keep you safe.  It doesn’t help you in any way.  I’m a liability.”

 

“Right,” she says bitterly, “how could it possibly be helpful to me to be married to someone I love and who loves me in return?  Better to have some cold, clinical marriage that benefits the Empire.”

 

He curses and steps closer, reaching for her.  She pulls her hand away, but doesn’t actually move.  He closes the distance and looks down at her.

 

She frowns up at him, but lifts her hand, cupping his cheek.  He ducks down for a kiss.  Tears stream down her face and she kisses him back.  She is so angry.  

 

She knows what has to be done.  But that doesn’t make it any easier.

 

She walks backwards to the bed, pulling him with her and they tumble down together.  Peggy doesn’t know if he can feel the difference, but she can.  There’s a finality to all of it, to every touch, every kiss.  She traces her hands over his body, trying vainly to commit every bit of him to memory.  It will never be enough.  She knows that.  But it’s all she has.

 

She wraps her legs around his waist as he moves over her.  She holds him close, her fingernails biting into his back, like she can mark him as eternally hers.  She concentrates on the feel of him as he moves inside her, over her.  She revels in the way his breath catches she tightens around him.  She fights to remember it all.  To make it last.  Because they won’t ever have this again.

 

Afterwards, they lay together, her head pillowed on his chest.  It’s twilight.

 

“I love you, Steve,” she says quietly.

 

His arm tightens around her too.  “I love you too.”

 

She pushes herself up into a sitting position and looks down at him.  “It’s over.  You’ve kept things from me in the name of protecting me.  I don’t need or want that kind of protection.”

 

He blinks at her, pushing himself up, mouth agape.  “What?”

 

“Leave,” she says firmly.  “You are not my consort.  You are not welcome in my bed.  You do not have my permission to touch me.”

 

“Peggy - “ he starts, frantic.

 

She arches back from him, looking away.  “Leave.  Now.  Or I will have you removed.”

 

He’s silent and still for a long moment, but finally pushes himself to his feet.  She doesn’t look at him.  She can’t.  He dresses quietly and leaves the room.  

 

Once he’s gone, she sinks down on the bed and sobs like she hasn’t since she first fled the Empire.

 

**END CHAPTER**


	11. Chapter 11

Peggy showers and takes her time getting ready.  She feels terrible and probably looks it too.  But there’s not much she can do about it.  When she exits her room, Steve is thankfully nowhere to be seen.

 

Michael escorts her to dinner with Frigga and Odin.  Thor is there, along with his brother who seems to take endless pleasure in the scene.  Peggy supposes she can’t fault him.  There is definitely a dark humor to the tableau.  

 

The evening is pleasant enough, despite Peggy’s misery.  She makes an early retreat, complaining of a headache. 

 

Michael escorts her back to the suite.  “Something happened with you and your swayback.”

 

“His name is Steve,” Peggy says firmly.  She glances as Michael.  “And it’s over.”

 

Michael nods, but doesn’t say anything.  

 

* * *

 

Peggy spends most of the next two days in Thor’s company.  He shows her Asgard.  It’s easy with Thor.  They enjoy each other’s company.  There is a definite physical attraction.  But when his kisses become too demanding, Peggy finds herself pushing him away.

 

Thor watches her carefully.  “You belong to another.”

 

“I belong to no one,” she snaps.

 

He arches an eyebrow at her and nods.  “My mistake.  Apologies.”

 

She steps away from him, crossing her arms over her chest.  She turns back, looking at him.  “I cannot reclaim Porth without Asgard’s assistance.”

 

“Indeed,” he says, “our reports have surmised as much.”

 

“So I suggest we negotiate the terms of Asgard’s assistance,” she says flatly.

 

He gives her a wry smile.  “I thought we were courting.”

 

“You know as well as I do that this will never be a love match.  But surely there are concessions Asgard desires from Porth.”

 

“From Porth?” he asks.  “Or from you?”

 

“They are one and the same,” Peggy says flatly.  “Trust me, prince of Asgard, negotiating the terms of my sexual favors is not a new concept for me.  Is there anything, in particular, that you’re wanting?”

 

He looks momentarily stunned, embarrassed.  “I was not considering anything quite so blunt,” he says quietly, “regardless of what my father wishes.  I require no such concessions, my lady.”

 

Peggy is somewhat placated.  “And yet there will be some concessions.  Odin is the one who commands the Einherjar.  His will must be appeased.”  She takes a deep breath.  “Clearly you need to do something to redeem yourself in your father’s eyes.  Perhaps we can find a mutually beneficial situation.”

 

Thor smiles darkly.  “Perhaps a bit of theatre will be required on both our parts.”

 

* * *

 

“You have accepted my son’s proposal?” Frigga asks, wide eyed.

 

“I have,” Peggy agrees with a smile.

 

* * *

 

The engagement dinner is a modest affair by Asgardian standards, given that it needs to happen before Fury shows up tomorrow and Peggy is off to Porth.  Of course, it’s still a lavish party with hundreds of people in attendance.  

 

Michael is deeply relieved and Peggy understands.  She hasn’t met her nephew, but she has no trouble imagining how distraught Michael must be.  

 

During the party, Steve, Dugan and Falsworth stick close to Peggy, along with a complement of Einherjar.  Steve is still the Captain of her Guard.  Such as it is.  Even a motley crew such as this needs a leader.  Steve is completely capable of being professional in public.  It’s all going very well until she has to visit the facilities.

 

Steve catches her as she’s heading back to the ballroom.  She looks at him expectantly, but now that he has her alone, he doesn’t seem to know what to say.  He shakes his head.  “Fury docked about an hour ago.”

 

“He made good time,” Peggy manages.  Why are they talking about Fury?

 

“Morita and Thompson are loading things right now, so we can leave first thing in the morning.  You’ll have my old quarters to yourself.”

 

“Good,” Peggy says.  She looks away.  “I’ll make sure Thor knows of the plans.”

 

Steve’s lips purse together.  “Peggy - “

 

“My dear.”

 

Peggy turns her head to see Thor.  He looks concerned and in need of direction from her.  “Leave us, please,” she says.

 

She watches the realization wash over Steve.  That she’s talking to  _ him _ and not Thor.  He flushes and nods, turning and retreating to a respectable distance.  Giving them his back.

 

“Are you alright?” Thor asks quietly.

 

“Fine,” Peggy assures him.

 

* * *

 

Steve really wants to punch his fist through a wall.  Or through Thor’s face.  Even though he knows that probably wouldn’t turn out in his favor.

 

Peggy told him that she felt attraction, but not love, toward Thor.  Of course, then she told Steve that she did love him.  Right before she kicked him out of her bed and broke their consort bond.  So Steve’s not sure what to think.  He knows he can’t draw any conclusions about what Peggy and Thor’s relationship is in private.  It may well be a marriage of convenience, but getting laid is also convenient.  Not that he'd know anything about that right now.

 

It took Peggy two days to engineer an engagement to Thor.  Steve understands that the Empire is quite literally on the line.  He knows she needs this alliance.  But despite how hard he braced himself, he wasn’t prepared to see her with Thor.  The sight of Thor’s hand resting at the small of Peggy’s back makes Steve want to start an intergalactic incident.

 

Steve has abided by Peggy’s wishes.  He has kept his demeanor toward her respectful, befitting a guard and nothing more.  Mostly because he knows she’s not bluffing.  She’s still so angry with him.  He knows he’s still around only because there are so few people Peggy can trust.  If he defies her again, he knows he will be completely locked out of her life, and possibly the Empire.  That is not acceptable.

 

He wants her back.  He once told her that if he lost her, he’d do a lot to get her back.  He never imagined that doing ‘a lot’ would mean doing nothing at all.  

 

He understands that keeping the information about the ceremony from her was wrong.  But he was being completely truthful with her.  She has nothing to gain from a marriage to him.  

 

Clearly, she has come to the same conclusion.  

 

Steve knew.  He knew before he ever got involved with her that things were going to end this way.  

 

But he also knows, if he had it to do again, he wouldn’t change anything.  He wouldn’t alter anything if it meant having one less moment with Peggy.  

 

They still have Stane - and whatever his plans are - to contend with.

 

Steve thought he left all this behind when he walked away from the Empire.  And now he’s stuck in the middle of it.

 

* * *

 

Steve throws his bag down on Natasha’s old bunk.  He stands up and Fury is right there, looking at him.

 

“The Empress of Porth,” Fury says.

 

Steve nods.

 

“And she gets your quarters while you’re out here with the crew.”

 

“Do you have some stateroom I don’t know about?” Steve asks blandly.

 

Fury frowns.  “She too good for you now?”

 

“Yes,” Steve says, “but that’s not why I’m out here.  She was always too good for me.”

 

Fury laughs darkly.  “Piss ‘er off again, Cap?”  He doesn’t wait for a reply.  He chucks Steve on the shoulder and walks away.

 

* * *

 

Things are crowded.  They were at capacity before, and now they have Michael and all of Peggy’s personal guards on board too.  And Steve and Peggy are no longer sharing a bunk.  It makes for tight quarters.

 

Despite the tight squeeze, Peggy still does a damn good job of avoiding Steve.  As far as he knows, she spends most of her time with Michael.  The rest of the Porthi run pretty hot or cold to Steve.  Dugan, Morita, Dernier, Jones and, surprisingly, Thompson, seem okay with, or at least indifferent to, Steve.  Steve knows Michael doesn’t like him, but that’s not exactly a shock.  

 

They’ll be in Porth by tomorrow.  Stane has the coronation ceremony already arranged, which doesn’t make anybody happy.  It will be held in the Council Tower, as is stipulated in the law.  This is somewhat of a relief, even if Steve isn’t excited about seeing the Council.  Though it’s entirely possible his mother won’t even recognize him.

 

* * *

 

Steve takes a deep breath as he steps down the ramp and is nearly overwhelmed.  The sights and smells of Porth.  He thought he was ready for this, but he’s not so sure.  He turns, looking at Peggy and sees the same sense of relief and sadness in her features.  She meets his gaze and holds it for a long moment, before looking away.

 

They are escorted, not to the Imperial palace, but to the Council Temple.  It is unorthodox for the heir to the Empire to stay there, but most things about Peggy’s return to Porth are unorthodox.

 

They are not precisely welcome at the Council Temple.  More tolerated.  Generations of strife between the Empress and the Council won’t be undone just because they have a common enemy in Stane.

 

Michael leaves them, returning to the palace, to John and Dottie.  The Temple is populated with hundreds of Porthi, almost exclusively women, Sisters of the Council.  They wear the traditional Council attire, robes of coarse gray material.  Their hair is braided in intricate patterns based on their levels of seniority.  

 

Peggy and her entourage, including Fury and his entire crew, are escorted to the Council chambers where they are granted audience with the Council of Three.  They are sisters, by vocation rather than blood.  The eldest, Karin, has held her place on the Council for more than eighty years.  She is the senior spiritual authority for the entire Empire.  Next to her is Sarah, now in her fifties, stoic and rigid as ever.  Steve meets her gaze, though she looks him over with generalized disdain of swayback males and no discernible flicker of recognition.  The youngest, Wanda, is maybe a year or two younger than Peggy.  In contrast to the rest of the Temple occupants, the Council’s robes are blue and finely made.

 

Peggy introduces herself and she and the Council exchange bows.  Steve listens as Peggy expertly negotiates shelter for herself and her entourage.  There is one caveat.  The Council requires proof that she is Diana’s granddaughter before proceeding.  

 

Steve’s read about the ritual before, so he’s not surprised.  But he’s still uneasy watching it.  The ceremonial knife has a long, S-shaped blade and they use it to slice the inside of Peggy’s left arm.  The blood is collected in a golden bowl and set before the Council.  

 

Whatever the Council sees in Peggy’s blood, they seem relieved.  They announce that she is Diana’s heir.  As such, she is granted shelter until the time of her coronation ceremony.

 

Before they are released entirely, everyone is cataloged.  Full names and places of birth.  It is clear that the non-Porthi among them are met with a much cooler reception.  Steve gives his full name.  The middle aged woman writing it down looks at him critically.  Steve has no idea if she suspects anything or not.  But they quickly send him on.

 

* * *

 

Peggy, her personal guard, and entourage, are cosseted away in one end of the Temple’s north wing.  Peggy is in the most defensible room, which can only be accessed by going through the room where Steve, Dugan and Thompson are bunking.

 

The rooms are spacious.  Given that they’ve all been crammed into a ship together for several days, it’s a welcome change of pace, even if it is a bit spartan.  The Council Temple complex lacks a lot of the amenities that most Porthi take for granted.  There are no datapads, no smart surfaces.  There is no ubiquitous AI to look after one’s needs, as is common in the rest of Porth. The Council Temple is an austere setting, designed to invite reflection and introspection.

 

Fury’s crew takes it all in.  Bucky is constantly bombarding people with questions.  Steve ignores him a lot, which is nothing new, though he does occasionally watch Bucky try and chat up one of the Sisters.  Steve’s pretty sure there’s a pool going on how long before Bucky gets kicked out of the Empire.

 

It’s pretty clear that Porthi societal dynamics rub Fury, Bucky and Howard the wrong way.  And they’re not even getting the worst of it.  As outsiders, they’re treated as curiosities by most Porthi.  Steve still gets looks, but not as many as he would have expected.  He suspects his last name has quite a bit to do with that.  He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.  Being Sarah Rogers’s son has never previously been an asset to him.

 

The morning after they arrive, four of the Sisters come to their rooms.  One of the Sisters carries a large object wrapped in oilcloth.  Peggy allows them to enter her room and speaks with them in private.  When they leave, she calls for Steve.

 

He enters her room cautiously.  Her features are tight.  He looks at her and she nods to the bed.  The oilcloth is there and lying on top of it is a circular shield, painted in the same pattern as Peggy’s mark.  Steve stares at it.

 

“For the Captain of my Guard,” she says quietly.  “It belonged to Grandmother’s Captain.  But when she was murdered, the Council recovered the shield.  They’ve kept it these years.”  She looks at him and then away.  “It’s yours now.”

 

Steve nods, swallowing thickly.  He’s seen the shield before.  Every Porthi has seen the shield.  Though Steve never expected to see it in real life, much less be given it.

 

Gingerly, Steve picks up the shield, sliding his left arm through the loops in the back.  It’s surprisingly light for its size, but he can tell by the way it doesn’t flex at all, that it is incredibly strong.  He holds it up, in front of him and gives Peggy a smile.

 

She looks up at him with an expression he can’t read, a mixture of sadness and longing.

 

There is a sharp knock on the door and Steve turns.  His mother stands in the doorway, her expression stern.  She looks from him to Peggy and back to him.  Her gaze seems to linger on his face.  She clears her throat loudly.  “I need a word with the heir.”

 

Peggy bristles at the term.  The Council has categorically refused to refer to her as the Empress until after the coronation ceremony.

 

Steve looks to Peggy and she nods a dismissal.  He leaves, pulling the door shut behind himself.

 

* * *

 

It’s some hours later before Peggy is alone and Steve has the opportunity to speak with her.  Sarah didn’t stay long, perhaps half an hour.  The bulk of the day has been one strategy meeting after another.  

 

Michael stopped by again, relaying the upsetting news that John’s condition is deteriorating quickly.  The visit left Peggy visibly shaken.

 

Peggy is standing on a balcony that overlooks the Council’s central courtyard.  Steve joins her, watching the setting suns.  

 

“You look like your mother,” Peggy says without looking at him.

 

Steve swallows thickly.  “Pardon?”

 

She gives him a withering look, frowning.  

 

“Sarah told you?” he asks.

 

“No,” Peggy says.  “Also, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me.”

 

Steve laughs darkly.  “Don’t worry about that.  She doesn’t like me either.”

 

“ _ Steve _ ,” Peggy says softly.

 

He swallows thickly, looking away.  “What did she want?”

 

“Honestly, I suspect a chance to get a closer look at you.  I’m sure they regret not jabbing everyone when they first allowed us in.  Surely it would have saved her the trouble of figuring out if you’re her estranged son or not.”  She sighs.  “Ostensibly, she wanted to go over the coronation ceremony.”

 

“Two days,” he says, ignoring the commentary about his mother.  There’s nothing he can do about it anyway.  “We heard from Thor earlier.  He and a legion of Einherjar are on Vanaheim.  They’ll board ships tomorrow and sneak inside the borders of the Empire.”

 

Peggy nods.  She looks up.  The suns have set, but the sky is still bright.  “I guess I don’t need a nightlight now,” she says.

 

Steve just looks at her.  She turns away.

 

**END CHAPTER**


	12. Chapter 12

Peggy blinks awake.  It’s not yet dawn, though the sky is light.  One more day until the coronation.  The sense of dread she feels is immense.  Porth is her home, as nowhere else will ever be.  But it’s also less like home than she would like. Familiar and strange all at once.

 

She thought that if she saw Porth again, she would do it with Steve at her side, in a much more intimate capacity than he is currently in.  It feels wrong, to be here, with things so strained between them.  It would be easier if she could push him away entirely.  A clean break.  Be rid of him and all of the tumultuous feelings he engenders in her.  But she can’t send him away.  For all his faults, he’s the person she trusts the most.

 

She rises from bed and sees to her morning ablutions.  She is having a cup of excellent coffee when there is a knock at the door.  It’s a woman in gray robes, one of the Sisters.  Dugan escorts her in and Steve immediately places himself between Peggy and the woman, shield at the ready.

 

“The Council of Three requests your presence,” the woman says, bowing.

 

Peggy and Steve share a long look and Peggy nods.  Steve, Dugan, Ramirez and Bucky escort her through the Temple halls to a chamber where she has never been.  It’s old.  Ancient.  

 

“They must wait outside,” Karin, the eldest of the Three, says.  She’s positively glaring at Bucky.  Peggy suspects it’s one of the very few times a non-Porthi has been allowed in the Council’s inner chambers.

 

“My Captain will stay,” Peggy replies firmly.

 

Karin meets her gaze for a long moment and then nods.  Dugan, Ramirez and Bucky leave, though Peggy knows they won’t go far.

 

“Why have you called me here?” Peggy asks bluntly, looking at the Three.

 

Sarah steps forward, holding Peggy’s gaze.  She’s wearing the blue robes of the Council, her long silvery blonde hair tied back in a severe knot at the base of her skull.  Her eyes are exactly the same shade of blue as Steve’s.  “Stane made an agreement with the Council, for us to turn you over to him upon your return,” she says flatly.  “The agreement coincided with your not so secret trip to Asgard.”

 

Peggy flushes at the revelation that she has been betrayed by her own people.  She is disappointed and angry, but not necessarily shocked.  She always knew the Council was out to further its own ends.  “So you mean to give me to him?” 

 

“That was the initial agreement,” Karin says bluntly, her bitterness evident.  She gives Peggy a hard look.  “You ran, girl.  You ran from your Empire and your duty.”

 

Peggy doesn’t deny it.  There would be no point.  It is the truth.

 

“You lived in the Alliance for years, so long we’re not certain you remember the Empire,” Karin continues.  “What use would you be to us?  We could trade one Alliance stooge for another.  The deal we bartered would free us from Stane  _ and _ Diana’s absentee heir.  For all of her problems, your grandmother stayed true to the Empire.  Stane promised us a new heir, of Diana’s line.”

 

Peggy looks pointedly around the Council chambers, which are empty, save them.  None of Stane’s henchmen are moving to intercept.  “Am I to take it you’ve reconsidered?”

 

Karin threads her fingers together, watching Peggy. “You did not merely ask for Asgard's assistance, you forged a pact,” she says tightly.  “We do not fear Stane or the Alliance.  But we would avoid dragging the Allfather into our squabble.”  She takes a deep breath, her features hard, “But, know this, heir, if you had forced our hand by actually marrying the Asgardian prince, we would have given you to Stane rather than watch Asgard try and claim dominion over Porth.”

 

Peggy frowns.  Her agreement with Thor is still firmly in place, as is the ruse of their engagement.  She has no idea why the Council is suddenly convinced that Asgard is no threat.  “I don’t understand.”

 

“The child you carry,” Karin snaps, “had it been the get of the Asgardian prince, we would have done away with you, given you to Stane before you could hand over Porth to the Allfather.”  She stops and gives Peggy a hard look.  She arches an eyebrow.  “But your blood tells us a different story.  The child in your belly isn’t Asgardian.  And it isn’t Alliance.  It’s Porthi through and through.  To the Empire bound and, eventually, born.”

 

Peggy can’t breathe as she blinks at the Three.  A child.  She’s suspected.  For a while now.  But she has been too afraid to verify her suspicions.  According to the Council, to her blood, she’s pregnant.  With a full Porthi child - though that isn’t news to Peggy.  There’s only one possible candidate and she already knew he was Porthi.  Behind her, she hears Steve shift.

 

Karin looks past Peggy to Steve and smiles darkly.  “Your Captain,” she says, “he is also your consort, yes?”

 

“He was,” Peggy answers bluntly.

 

“And the child,” Karin presses.  “Is it his get?”   
  


Peggy swallows thickly, sticking out her chin.  “It is.”

 

Karin looks over at Sarah, arching an eyebrow.  Slowly, the old woman turns back to Peggy.  “It’s a daughter you carry,” she says.  “An heir.  The next Empress.”  She pauses, glancing again at Sarah.  “But also of Council blood.”

 

Peggy stands there in silence.  She’s aware of Steve moving closer, of him standing directly behind her.

 

“This business with Asgard,” Karin says, forming the words like they leave a bad taste in her mouth, “you will end it.  The child is not of Odin’s line, but we will not have them meddling in Porthi business.”

 

Peggy crosses her arms over her chest.  “Even if you’ve changed your mind about stabbing me in the back,” she says, “I can’t get rid of Stane without help.  Not without incurring avoidable loss of life.  We need Asgard.”

 

Karin frowns nastily.

 

Sarah steps forward. “And the price of Asgard’s assistance?”

 

“The Casket of Ancient Winters,” Peggy replies.  “I know the artifact was taken when Diana defeated the Asgardians at Vorden.  We must return it as payment for Asgard’s assistance in getting rid of Stane and his conspirators with minimal bloodshed.”

 

“It was my understanding that you were the one who bartered with the Asgardians,” Sarah says.  “Bartered yourself, in fact.”

 

“You understood wrong,” Peggy says.  “The price is the Casket.”

 

“And why would the Council turn over a relic of such power?” Sarah demands.  “The child ensures nothing but a line of succession.  You could still pursue a permanent bond with Odin’s son and then we’d never be rid of the Allfather.”

 

“You will turn over the relic because your Empress demands it,” Peggy informs her coldly.  

 

“Not without assurance that Asgard will not interfere with Porth," Sarah counters, staring at Peggy.  She’s not going to roll over, not even for the Empress.

 

“Thor has no interest in me,” Peggy says.  “There is no opportunity to forge a lasting alliance.”  She takes a deep breath.  “I am married to a Porthi.  I cannot wed another, even if the alliance would be beneficial to the Empire.”

 

Sarah looks past Peggy to Steve.  “Is this true?”

 

Peggy looks over her shoulder and Steve nods.  “In the old tradition,” he says.

 

“And it is bound and done?” Sarah demands.

 

Steve takes a breath.  “All that remained was the public acknowledgement of the bond.  With that done, the contract is fully executed.  I am her husband.”

 

Sarah looks at Peggy, curious.  “You would marry a swayback?”

 

“I already did,” Peggy says flatly.

 

* * *

 

“You two were in there a long time,” Dugan says as Peggy and Steve push through the chamber doors.

 

“Save it,” Peggy snaps.

 

They return to the rooms they’ve been using.  Steve relays the bigger points, that the Council had been intending to betray Peggy, but changed their minds.  And that The Council has agreed to meet the price for Asgard’s assistance.  He doesn’t mention the pregnancy, the marriage, or the fact that his mother is a Council elder.

 

“Why the change of heart from the Council?” Dugan asks.

 

Steve looks to Peggy.

 

“None of your concern,” she says tightly.  “We need to make sure everything is ready for Thor.  Getting the antidote from Stane is our first priority, and then removing him and all of his henchmen from power as quickly and quietly as possible.”

 

Peggy retreats to her room.  Everything is in place.  She knows that.  There is very little preparation left to be done.  Now it’s a waiting game.

 

She sits heavily on the bed, cradling her head in her hands.  She had realized, on some level, that she would be responsible for producing an heir.  But she’d had no intention of doing it quite so soon.  And the Council sanctioning her child grates on her nerves.  It is none of their business, whether they agree with it or not.  She will not be their puppet any more than she would be Stane’s.

 

Did Steve's mother suspect they were married?  Or was it a shot in the dark?  What if they hadn't completed the ceremony?  Would the Council have demanded Peggy marry a Porthi as proof that she wouldn't turn to Asgard for a permanent alliance?

 

Peggy is aware of Steve entering the room, closing the door behind himself.  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asks.

 

“Oh, I think you’ve done more than enough,” she snaps.

 

To her shock, he doesn’t retreat.  He crosses the room and sits on the bed next to her. “I don’t have a ring,” he says.  “Sorry.”

 

Peggy snorts and lifts her head, staring blindly across the room.  “It’s hardly necessary.  I have no intention of wearing a visible symbol of our bond.”  She looks down at herself.  “Well, no more than is absolutely necessary for a short time.”  She tries to imagine her belly rounded with a child, but her brain can’t seem to make the leap.

 

She knows that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.  It was cold. But right now it’s necessary.  She doesn’t have time to worry about what Steve wants at the moment.  Or where he fits in her life.   _ If _ he fits at all.  

 

They’re married - a formality that was absolutely necessary to securing the Council's cooperation.  Under other circumstances, Peggy isn’t sure she would have ever acknowledged their relationship.  But now it’s done, for better or for worse, unbreakable, even in death.  

 

She and Steve are apparently having a child.  But Peggy has no idea what any of this really means for either of them.  She does know that as Empress, she is not obligated to involve him, husband or not, in any of it.

 

Changing the subject, Peggy says, “It appears that your mother is claiming you.”

 

Steve shrugs, his jaw set.  “You know as much as me.” 

 

Peggy is slightly mollified by the fact that she isn’t the only one who has been completely used in this scenario.  She knows Steve knew nothing of the Council’s plans and he certainly wasn’t complicit with anything when they started sleeping together.  His familial ties to Sarah are a random stroke of chance that has benefited the Council.  And in a roundabout way, benefited Peggy and, hopefully, the Empire.  But it's just all so fucking  _convenient_ for Sarah.  Peggy hates it.

 

Steve takes a deep breath.  “Did you ... know?” he asks quietly, cautiously.

 

Peggy considers not answering, or intentionally misunderstanding, given the things he’s kept from her recently.  But lying about this would serve no point.  There’s nothing to lie about.  “No,” she says.  “I suspected, but I didn’t want to know.  Especially not while we were on Asgard.”

 

He’s quiet.  “Do you regret it?”

 

Peggy shakes her head.  “No,” she says firmly.  “Pregnancy is a fairly standard consequence of fucking men without using birth control.  I was a companion for more than a decade.  I could have been careful, I wasn’t.”

 

She can hear his teeth grind together.  She knows he hates how clinically she’s describing their relationship.  And he surely doesn’t appreciate how she’s taking the bulk of the ownership for their unintended consequences.  Though, clearly, she’s the one in possession of the consequences.  This is  _ her _ heir,  _ her _ child.

 

He pushes himself to his feet and looks down at her.  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

 

She looks away and doesn’t respond.

 

* * *

 

The day of Peggy’s coronation dawns brightly and she scowls at it.  She did not sleep well, tossing and turning, only to fall asleep shortly before dawn.  She forces herself out of bed and into the shower.  When she exits, she’s informed that there are three Sisters, sent by the Council, to help her prepare.

 

Peggy isn’t crazy about the idea of Sisters loyal to the Council having her alone.  She's reasonably certain that Sarah doesn't intend her bodily harm.  Not while she's carrying the next Empress, who also happens to be Sarah's granddaughter.  But Peggy isn't so certain about Karin.  The old woman doesn't seem like she would mind getting rid of Peggy.

 

Peggy asks Steve to sit in the corner and watch the preparations, in the event that the Sisters have decided to murder her.  It’s clear the women, young women, don’t appreciate Steve’s presence.  They are obviously uncomfortable, but none of them dare to suggest he leave.  Though Peggy does get a kick out of how scandalized they are when she changes in front of him.

 

As the preparation process wears on, Peggy is glad for the Sisters' assistance.  The traditional garments and hairstyle for the coronation ceremony are a complicated affair.  There’s no way Peggy could manage it on her own, not without looking like a complete impostor.  

 

When they’re finally finished, Peggy dismisses the women and stares at herself in the mirror.  It’s uncanny.  She resembles her grandmother so closely.  She only hopes she possesses half of Diana’s strength, and nerve.

 

Her hair has been braided into a complicated style, strung through with strands of tiny diamonds, sapphires and rubies.  The dress is a simple, elegant white halter dress that leaves her shoulder and mark clearly visible.  Though as with most things on Porth, the simplicity is part of the illusion.  Everything has to be absolutely perfect, so it looks effortless.  Even though it just took three people two hours to make her presentable.

 

She glances at Steve and catches him staring at her.  “Have you spoken with Thor?” she asks.

 

He nods.  “He and the Einherjar are in place,” he says.  “Stationed throughout the city.”

 

Peggy can’t help herself, she’s in desperate need of validation.  She steps back from the mirror and poses.  “How do I look?”

 

He doesn’t immediately respond.  Slowly, he pushes off the wall and crosses the room to her.  He’s cleaned up as well, wearing traditional Porthi military attire, which really doesn’t look so different from his regular tactical gear.  But he does wear it so well.  And he shaved.  His jaw looks to be carved from granite.    

 

He stops, a hair’s breadth from her, leaning down.  His lips are almost touching her ear and she can feel the heat of his breath.  “You look like the Empress,” he says.

 

She groans and reaches up, cupping his cheek and pulling him in for a kiss.  His lips are soft and his hands immediately find her hips, pulling her close.   _ Fuck _ , she has missed him.  Their tongues tangle together and she wants him so desperately.  But she curses, pushing him away.  “I’m still mad at you,” she announces.

 

He looks at her, trying to hide a grin.

 

“Is it time yet?” she asks.  She knows the ceremony has to be completed before midday.

 

He nods.  “This way,” he says, motioning to the door.

 

* * *

 

Peggy suspects that all of her years performing as a companion is the only reason she’s not a total wreck as she and her entourage make their way to the Council Tower.  The entire Council complex is buzzing with activity and there are waves of non-Council people in attendance, spectators.  Porthi citizens crowd the courtyard outside the Tower, vying for position.  Peggy tries not to scan the faces.  She really isn’t up for any tearful reunions right now.

 

Steve walks in front of her, shield held firmly in place.  Peggy concentrates on the center of his back, following close behind.  She is ringed by her personal guard.

 

Peggy knows, in broad terms, what to expect inside the Tower.  But the space is smaller than she anticipated, more intimate.  She glances at Michael and Dottie, standing quietly with their son, who looks so very small and ill.  She swallows thickly against the burn of tears.  

 

There is a raised platform in the center of the room, where the ceremony will take place.  The Council of Three waits there, but Peggy does not immediately ascend it.  She turns to Stane who stands to the side, watching her with an evil gleam in his eyes.

 

She crosses the room to Stane, with Steve close behind.  “I’m here.  I held up my end of the bargain.  Give me the antidote,” Peggy says, holding out her hand.

 

Stane smiles at her and drops a vial into her palm.  “You always were such a trusting child, Peggy,” he says.  “Always so willing to sacrifice yourself for others.”

 

She blinks up at him, feeling absolutely no resonance with the words he speaks.  She was never a child, never trusting.  And she is not one to sacrifice for the comfort of others.  “This is your last day in my Empire,” she says evenly.

 

He smiles, leaning in toward her.  “You will kneel for me, child.”

 

She turns away.  It’s clear that Stane has some nefarious plan in the works, but she has no idea what it is.  And there’s nothing she can do about it at this point.  Michael crosses the room to her and she hands him the vial, closing her hands around his, clasping them tight.  “Have the Council mages check it first, Michael.  Don’t trust him.”

 

Michael nods, but quickly leaves, pulling Dottie and John with him.

 

Peggy looks at Steve, who has never been more than a foot from her since they left her rooms.  He motions to the dais and she nods.  He accompanies her to the edge of the platform and leans down close, so only she can hear him.  “Good luck, wife,” he whispers.

 

Peggy bites back a smile, unable to look at him.  He’s awful.  And she loves him so much.  Slowly, she ascends the steps alone, standing before the Three.

 

The ceremony is surprisingly short and straightforward, despite being conducted in the Old Tongue, which Peggy has always despised.  She understands barely enough to know when to nod and bow.  

 

Karin finally steps forward, followed closely by Sarah and Wanda.  The three of them look at her and then slowly bow, whispering, “Empress.”

 

Peggy turns, facing the crowd, and they all take a knee, repeating her title reverently.  Behind them, out in the courtyard, row after row of spectators do the same thing.

 

Peggy looks around.  The only person not kneeling is Stane, who watches her mutely.

 

The Council finally straighten up and everyone else follows suit.  Out in the courtyard, there is raucous cheering.  Peggy feels her cheeks flame and she looks at Steve who is watching her with open adoration.  She smiles at him.

 

A noise catches Peggy’s attention.  She glances over at Stane who is looking around frantically, clearly irate.

 

Steve touches his ear, listening to the comm.  He signals to Dugan who grabs Peggy and bolts for the door.  Peggy turns and has just enough time to see Stane holding something, with Steve running toward him.

 

“No,” Peggy yells, trying to claw her way out of Dugan’s grasp.  He won’t release her.  The blast is terrific and sends them both, as well as most of the people in the courtyard, sprawling to the ground.

 

There’s smoke, fire.  Peggy can’t hear anything.  She’s vaguely aware of Dugan dragging her to her feet, of Jones and Morita helping him usher her in the opposite direction of the blast as Jack and Bucky run toward the Tower.

 

* * *

 

“What happened?” Peggy demands.  Her voice is hoarse from smoke and nerves.

 

Dugan shakes his head.  “We’re not sure.  Stane had charges set all over the city.  Some of his conspirators betrayed him at the last minute.  The Einherjar were able to defuse most of them.  There were two, one in the city market and one in the water treatment plant that did significant damage.  We don’t have a body count yet.”

 

“And the explosive Stane had on him?” Peggy snaps.

 

“Intended to kill you.  And the Council.”  Peggy turns and looks at Thor, who is speaking, having just entered the room, his expression grim.  His face is smudged with soot and dirt and he looks exhausted.  

 

“What happened?” she asks.

 

“Stane apparently knew he wasn’t going to be able to salvage anything for himself.  He decided to get rid of you and the Council, destroy as much of Porth as he could on his way out,” Thor says bluntly.  He shrugs.  “He tried.  Your Captain saw to it he did not succeed.”

 

Peggy looks as Jack enters the room.  He looks awful, like he’s been digging through rubble, which she assumes, is probably the case.  She looks at him expectantly.

 

Jack swallows thickly.  “Cap took the worst of it.  He saved a lot of lives - “

 

“Where is he?” Peggy asks hollowly.

 

“He’s been transferred to the University hospital,” Jack says.  “He’s ... bad.  They took him straight into surgery.  It will probably be hours before we know anything.”

 

Peggy’s eyes burn, but she tamps the emotions down, forces herself to power through it.  “And the Council?” 

 

“Karin was badly injured,” Jack says.  “The other two, Sarah and Wanda, are okay.  Rattled, but not injured.”

 

Peggy takes a deep breath.  She is the Empress now.  This is her Empire that Stane has attacked, her citizens he has hurt.  It is her husband, who Stane has grievously injured.  

 

Peggy can’t really linger on that thought.  Steve is strong.  He’ll pull through.  He has to.  She can’t contemplate any other possible outcome. 

 

“Where is Stane?” she asks quietly.

 

“In a Council holding cell,” Thor says.  “The Alliance has been informed of his crimes, but he still has diplomatic status.  They will undoubtedly want him returned to stand trial in their courts.  But we can take you to him before he’s transferred.”

 

* * *

 

They open the door to Stane’s cell and Thor starts to enter.  Peggy puts a hand on his arm.  “I will speak with him alone.”

 

Thor doesn’t look happy, but he steps back.  Peggy understands that, in spite of all of his crimes, Obadiah Stane is still the Alliance ambassador.  He’s still one of the most powerful men in the Alliance.  He has powerful allies.  The Porth Empire is in a precarious position.  The Empire has to maintain a strong relationship with the Alliance.  Peggy is not naive.  She understands all the reasons why Obadiah Stane will never receive the punishment he deserves.  It’s how power works.

 

Peggy walks past Thor into the small cell.  Stane stands at the far end, leaning back against the wall.  His wrists are in shackles bolted to the floor.  He’s covered in dirt and soot, there is a cut over his left eye that is still oozing.  

 

He smiles broadly at her, his teeth smeared with blood.  “Peggy,” he says brightly, “how good to see you.  We can discuss what you’re going to give me in return for what I know.  I was just - “

 

Peggy slams the stiletto into his chest, piercing his heart.  Stane looks at her, eyes wide.  He crumples to his knees, eyes still riveted on her face.  He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

 

Peggy leans forward, looking down at him.  “Look who’s kneeling now,” she whispers.  She smiles at him, pulling the blade from his chest.  

 

She turns back to the door, hearing the sound of Stane’s body collapsing to the floor.  Thor and Jack watch her with wide eyes, but neither of them say a word.

 

* * *

 

Porthi medicine is more mystical, but no less advanced, than the care available in the Alliance.  A lot of the technology is exactly the same.  A Porthi hospital is largely indistinguishable from an Alliance hospital.  

 

And Peggy finds it to be every bit as depressing.

 

Jack speaks to a woman in a sage robe.  He nods and then hurries to Peggy’s side.  “Cap’s hanging in there,” Jack says.  “But he’s still in surgery and it’s going to be a long time.”

 

Peggy nods.

 

At her shoulder, Dugan says, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you don’t have time to stand around wringing your hands.  The Empire needs you.”

 

Peggy looks up at his taut features and nods.  Thor touches her shoulder lightly, ushering her toward the door.

 

* * *

 

It’s the dead of night, not that you’d know it from the amount of people milling around.  Peggy looks up as the door to her suite of rooms in the Council is opened.  She will eventually move into the Imperial residence, but it will probably be months before it’s cleared.  

 

“Michael,” she says, crossing the room to him.

 

He nods and pulls her close, hugging her tightly.  “It worked, Peggy,” he says quietly, like a prayer.  “It worked.  John is improving.”

 

She pulls back and looks at her brother, smiling through tears.  “I’m so glad,” she says with heartfelt relief.  She feels like this is the first bit of good news she’s had in days.

 

Michael nods, overcome.  “The doctors say it will take months for him to fully recover what he’s lost, but he’s getting better.  The improvement already is astounding.”

 

“I want you and Dottie and John here,” Peggy says.  “With me.  No one who was close to Stane is free from suspicion, including staff at the palace.”

 

Michael nods.  “One step ahead of you,” he says, giving her a watery smile.  “They’re already here.”

 

Peggy sighs in relief, stepping back and wrapping her arms around herself.  

 

Michael’s expression changes as he looks at her.  “I heard,” he starts, and then falls silent.  “Did you execute Stane?”

 

“I did,” Peggy says.

 

Michael nods.  He’s silent for a moment and then says, “I’m so sorry about Steve.”

 

Peggy doesn’t reply.  She can’t.

 

* * *

 

It is days before Peggy has time to take a proper shower.  She’s supposed to be resting, but she orders Dugan to take her to the hospital.  Steve came through the surgery, but his injuries are horrific.  Even with his enhanced healing abilities, it’s not at all certain he will pull through.

 

Peggy finds Bucky sitting at Steve’s bedside.  He nods and disappears without a word when she arrives.  She sits in the uncomfortable chair, her hand wrapped around Steve’s.  He isn’t responsive.  The best Porthi doctors have seen him.  Cho examined him too.  None of them are telling her it’s a lost cause.  But none of them are giving her hope either.

 

With her free hand, Peggy wipes away tears.  She’s been so busy since the coronation that she has mostly been able to block Steve out of her mind.  There’s nothing she can do for him.  Right now, it’s entirely up to him and the medical staff.  But seeing him like this guts her.  He’s injured because of her, because he was protecting her.

 

Peggy feels like she understands her grandmother in this moment.  She understands how losing someone you love can completely derail your life.  After Peggy’s mother died, Diana started to fade away.  She withdrew, right when her Empire needed her the most.  And she never recovered from it.  It set off a chain of events that allowed Stane to wreak so much havoc, to destroy so many lives.

 

There’s a knock on the door and Peggy looks up to see Thor.  He enters the room.  She sits up straighter in her chair, but doesn’t release Steve’s hand.  She supposes her farce of an engagement to Thor has been played out.

 

“It’s done,” Thor says.  “Stane’s conspirators have been rounded up.  The Porthi are under the supervision of the Council guard.  We’ll take the Alliance members with us.  They can stand trial in a neutral location on Asgard.”

 

“I want them executed,” Peggy says thickly.

 

Thor nods.  “I understand that.  But there will be a trial.  The Alliance has been very ... understanding, about Ambassador Stane’s untimely death.  I believe you have somehow avoided another war.”

 

They’re quiet and the only sound is the ventilator that’s breathing for Steve.  Peggy watches the mechanical rise and fall of his chest.

 

“You love him,” Thor says quietly.

 

Peggy nods.  “Yes.”

 

“You two married?” he asks.

 

Peggy nods.  She doesn’t know who told him.  She hasn’t made any announcement and she doesn’t intend to, but it’s not really a secret. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says gravely.

 

Peggy puts her hand over her mouth, fighting back tears.  “Thank you.”

 

Thor turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind himself.  

* * *

 

The days stretch out.  Peggy pays less attention to the Empire than she should.  It was easier to concentrate on her duties before she saw Steve.  But once she sat at his bedside, she found it impossible to tear herself away, even knowing how indulgent it is.  

 

Michael steps up, taking charge when she can’t.  She spends days and nights at Steve’s side.  There are close calls.  Steve develops an infection that leaves him fighting for his life for one harrowing night.  But as morning dawns, things improve.  Eventually the doctors wean him off the ventilator.  To her eternal relief, he breathes on his own.

 

Peggy takes a rare break to shower and eat.  When she pushes into his room again, Sarah is standing at his bedside.  

 

“Please,” Peggy says, sinking into the chair closest to the bed, “have a seat.”

 

“I can’t stay,” Sarah says tightly.  

 

“Of course not,” Peggy agrees.  “Why would you stay?  He’s just your son.  Your only child, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

Sarah flinches and takes a seat.  Peggy knows that Sarah is now the Council elder.  Karin’s injuries forced her retirement and they are currently looking for a third Sister to complete the Council.

 

“He told you,” Sarah says.

 

“He did not,” Peggy corrects.  “He’s only spoken of you in passing.  But I have eyes.  And the math isn’t terribly difficult.  He didn’t deny it when I told him he looks like you.”

 

“The nurse told me his prognosis isn’t optimistic,” Sarah says.  “Head trauma, debilitating injuries to his entire left side.”

 

“He’s strong,” Peggy replies flatly.  “A swayback, as you pointed out.  He will survive.  It’s what they do.”   _ He won’t abandon me _ , she adds in her mind.  She thinks maybe if she says it often enough, she can will it to be true.   

 

They sit in silence for a very long time.  Steve doesn’t move a muscle.  Peggy watches him until her eyes burn.

 

“You’re wrong,” Sarah says quietly.  “He doesn’t look like me.  He looks like his father.”

 

Peggy turns her head to Sarah.  “Is that why you abandoned him?”

 

Sarah meets her gaze and holds it, refusing to be cowed by Peggy.  “Despite what you must think,” Sarah says, “the issue was never that I didn’t love his father.  Or that I didn’t love him.  One day you might understand.”

 

Peggy looks back to Steve.  She doesn’t know how much to believe Sarah.  But she does understand how complex love can be.  Peggy loves Steve.  She knows she will never love another man as much as she loves him.  But she knows that doesn’t mean there aren’t problems.  Even if he does pull through, she still doesn’t know what it means for them.

 

Sarah pushes herself to her feet and looks down at Peggy.  “I will pray for him,” she says.  “And for you.”

 

**END CHAPTER**


	13. Chapter 13

**FOUR MONTHS LATER**

 

“So anyone can just get a job?” Scott asks.  “Any job?  You didn’t need a vocational assessment?  Or references from a house elder?  No family connections or caste levels?”

 

Steve sighs and looks at his coworker.  Scott never shuts up.  Steve had thought Bucky was bad.  But Scott is constantly bombarding Steve with questions about life beyond the borders of the Empire.  Steve gets it.  Scott is a scholar, so a natural curiosity is part of the job.  But it’s exhausting. 

 

“Typically you need an aptitude in the field,” Steve says.  “No one in the Alliance is going to hire a stone mason to be a surgeon.  They have educational requirements, just like here.”

 

Scott looks at him pensively.  “So what were you?  A librarian?  The Alliance doesn’t have scholars the way the Empire does.”

 

“No,” Steve says bluntly, “I was a mercenary for hire.  I hurt people.  For money.  And sometimes just because I was bored.”

 

Scott blinks at him several times and then turns away.  Steve sighs and looks back at the text he’s trying to decipher.  It’s written in the Old Tongue.  By someone with deplorable penmanship.  A thousand years ago.

 

In his peripheral vision, Steve’s aware of Scott swiveling his chair toward him again.  “Yes, Scott,” he says, forestalling the inevitable questions, “I’m being completely serious.”  He’s aware of Scott swiveling away again.

 

Steve knows that his days as a merc aren’t a particularly easy sell at the moment.  He’s still recovering from the injuries he sustained at Peggy’s coronation.  Though the source of his injuries aren’t common knowledge among his workers.  He has no idea what they think happened to him.

 

Steve’s left arm and leg are not recovered.  With physical therapy, they are improving, but it’s slow going.  He’s still healing, they keep reminding him.  It will take time.  Time seems to be the only thing Steve has these days.

 

Steve has never been so grateful for his swayback heritage.  He knows if it wasn’t for his enhanced healing abilities, he likely wouldn’t have survived at all.  But right now, he knows he doesn’t look like someone whose livelihood once depended on his physical abilities.  He’s underweight.  He lost a lot of muscle mass languishing in a hospital bed.  And for now, at least, he walks with a limp and he doesn’t have full range of motion with his left arm.  The scars are plentiful and painful.

 

Steve is no longer the Captain of the Empress’s guard.  He woke in the hospital, to find Bucky asleep in the chair next to him.  According to the nurse, who looked at Steve like he was a lost puppy, he had been there for just over three weeks.  

 

Bucky brought Steve up to speed.  Most of the day of the coronation ceremony was a blur for Steve.  He had only the vaguest recollections of running toward Stane when he saw the explosive.  Bucky told him Stane was dead, explained that Asgard seriously limited the amount of collateral damage Stane’s plan was able to inflict.

 

“She’s okay?” Steve rasped.

 

Bucky nodded.  “Yeah, she’s okay.  She spent a lot of time here when it was bad, when it looked like you weren’t going to - “  He fell silent.  “Once you started making real progress, she got dragged back into, you know, running the Empire, I guess.”

 

Steve didn’t say anything, but he could only imagine how much work there is for Peggy to do.  He still doesn’t know what to think about the fact that she apparently spent quite a bit of time sitting with him while he was unconscious.  After he woke up, he never saw her.  Not once.  He hasn’t heard anything out of her at all.

 

Steve’s attempts to reach out to Peggy have been met with deafening silence.  Her security is too tight now, for him to even think of getting close to her.  He saw Thompson once, on the street, and asked him about Peggy.  He didn’t say a word and the pitying look he gave Steve made Steve want to ram his fist through Thompson’s stupid face.

 

Steve feels like this is part of his penance.  Respecting her wishes, even when it kills him.  He wants to see her.  He needs to see her.  But she doesn’t want to see him.

 

Unlike Peggy, Sarah did come to visit Steve after he woke in the hospital, which was deeply unnerving.  It was awkward and stilted.  Obviously, both of them were very uncomfortable.  But Sarah visited, day after day.  She helped him secure his position as a scholar with the university, for which he is grateful.  

 

Steve likes the work, a lot. The money isn’t great.  He could definitely make more with Fury’s crew.  But Steve isn’t about to leave the Empire again. Not with things the way they are between him and Peggy.  And certainly not with a child on the way.  Not that Steve has any involvement in that.  

 

He saw a holo of Peggy on the morning news.  It’s getting harder for her to disguise her condition, provided you know to look.  She was giving a speech, flanked by her new Captain of the Guard, a woman.  According to Scott, her name is Jessica Jones and she is ‘very scary’.  Scott is absolutely obsessed with the Empress and everything she does.  Truth told, Steve is too.  Though he’s significantly quieter about it.

 

Steve knows he can petition for visitation rights to their daughter once she’s born.  Though he’s hoping he can avoid needing to do that.  

 

He wants his wife.  

 

He wants his family.  

 

It all seems so impossible right now.

 

He  _ knows _ though, he  _ knows _ that if he can talk to Peggy alone, they can work this out.  He remembers their kiss the morning of her coronation.  She spent a week sitting next to him in the hospital.  It’s obvious she still cares, even if she is keeping her distance.  She’s still angry, and he gets it.  But he can make this right if she’ll just give him a chance.

 

It’s late and Steve packs up his things.  He nods to Claire and Pepper as he leaves, heading home for the day.

 

* * *

 

Steve resets the weight on the machine and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing his towel and heading for the door.  The gym is small, located in the basement of his apartment building.  At this time of night, it’s blissfully empty.  It’s not that Steve goes out of his way to avoid his neighbors.  But it can be awkward.  He’s a swayback.  He’ll always be a swayback, even if his mother has chosen to acknowledge their connection.  She contacted him earlier and Steve let the AI take a message.  

 

So Steve’s neighbors and coworkers are polite for the most part.  But he’s a swayback, and a former exile.  He knows so much about Porthi law and lore.  But he’s still a bit lost when it comes to day to day interactions.  

 

Since Peggy’s coronation, the Empire has been welcoming home its wayward children.  Even Steve has been surprised by the amount of exiles returning to Porth.  He’s also grateful as it makes him stand out less.  Though most of them are returning from Asgard, which is culturally more similar to the Empire.  As far as Steve can tell, that just means that he’s more of a curiosity than ever to Scott, who is absolutely obsessed with all things having to do with the Alliance.  Steve has stopped tracking Scott’s obsessions.  There are far too many of them to try and keep up with.

 

Non-Porthi are still discouraged from entering the Empire, but there are some clear exceptions.  Steve knows Thor and Sif have visited regularly, thanks to Scott.  And Fury’s crew is around from time to time.  Steve sees Bucky and Natasha about once a month.

 

Steve takes a shower and is eating leftovers when there’s a knock at his door.  Steve checks his datapad.  There are two more voice messages from his mother and a handful of text messages.  He is not shocked when he opens the door to see her standing there.

 

“Impertinent,” she snaps, pushing past him into the apartment.

 

“By all means, Mother,” he says, “Come in.”

 

He’s wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, so most of his scars are on display.  Sarah looks at them, frowning.  “How are you?” she asks.

 

“Tired,” he says truthfully.  “Is there something you need?”

 

She frowns again, crossing her arms over her chest.  “There is a christening this weekend,” she says, “for the Empress’s nephew.  They’re making up for lost time, I expect.”

 

Steve shrugs.  “What’s that got to do with me?”

 

“He’s your nephew too.”

 

“By marriage,” Steve says, “which Peggy doesn’t seem to be terribly interested in acknowledging right now.”

 

“She already acknowledged it,” Sarah snaps.  “She can’t undo a sacred bond just because she doesn’t feel like talking to you right now.  Not even the Empress has that power.”

 

Steve sighs, sitting down on his lumpy couch.  It’s not exactly a revelation to him that his mother is awful with interpersonal relationships.  “What do you want me to do about any of this?”

 

Sarah scowls.  “I’m officiating the ceremony,” she says.  “You will attend as my guest.”

 

Steve blinks at her.  “Are you trying to play matchmaker between me and my wife?”

 

“She can’t avoid you forever,” Sarah says imperiously.

 

Steve doesn’t reply, though he figures that if anyone is capable of spending a lifetime proving a point, it’s probably Peggy Carter.  And he’s not exactly sure why Sarah is so bothered by this.  “Look, Mother, I appreciate the concern, but this is between me and Peggy.”

 

“She’s been unwell.”

 

Steve looks at her.  “What does that mean?” he asks tightly.

 

She shrugs.  “I don’t know.  But they’ve had healers in from Asgard to see her.  I think it may have something to do with the baby.”

 

Steve drags a hand through his hair.  “Fine,” he says, “I’ll be there.  Just send me the time.”

 

* * *

 

Steve sits at the back of the Tower, waiting.  Michael and Dottie arrive, with their son, who looks so much better than the last time Steve saw him.  Michael glances over at him and gives him a tight smile, which, truthfully, is the most welcoming he’s ever been toward Steve.  Steve isn’t sure what to think of that.  He suspects it has something to do with Michael learning what a pain in the ass his baby sister can be.

 

Peggy’s security detail enters, led by the new Captain of the Guard, carrying her shield.  Dugan nods to Steve.  Thompson frowns.  Peggy enters, but so purposefully does not look in Steve’s direction, that he knows she’s aware of his presence.  Steve watches her through the ceremony.  She’s wearing a loose dress, made of a soft gray material.  Her face looks thin, her cheekbones in harsh relief.  But her color is good and her hair is shiny.  She doesn’t appear to be unwell.

 

The ceremony isn’t long and Michael and Dottie head outside with John, who clearly wants to get down and run.  Peggy and her entourage head for the door and Steve moves to intercept.  “Peggy.”

 

She stops walking, still not looking at him.  “Leave us,” she says quietly.

 

“Ma’am,” Jones says.

 

“ _ Now _ ,” Peggy snaps.  They all file outside immediately, leaving her alone with Steve.  Slowly, she turns to face him, her features tightening as she looks him over.  Her eyes are glassy.

 

He steps closer.  “Are you okay?” he asks quietly.  “Sarah said there’ve been healers to see you.”

 

“I’m fine,” she says.  “Morning sickness.  Hardly life threatening.”  She looks him up and down, frowning.  “How are you?”

 

He shrugs.  “Recovering.  Slowly.”  He takes a deep breath.  “I’m lonely.  After all these years, I’m finally home and I’ve never felt more alone.”

 

She blinks quickly and looks away.  “There’s a reception,” she says.  “For John.  I need to ...”

 

Steve looks at her and holds out his hand.  “Please.”

 

Peggy blinks quickly, but carefully places her hand in his, letting him pull her close.  She wraps her arms around his neck and he holds her against his body, breathing in the smell of her.  She sniffles loudly and then groans, whispering, “I’ve missed you so much.”

 

Steve ducks his head and kisses her.  She pushes up into the kiss on tiptoe, her fingernails biting into his shoulders and he shivers with longing.  Steve eventually coaxes her away from the doorway, into the shadowed recesses of the Tower.  He sits down on a bench and pulls her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her.  They kiss for a long time, touching, feeling, cataloging one another.

 

Abruptly, Peggy pulls back, making a pained face as her breath hisses between her lips.  

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, worried.

 

She nods and then takes his hand, guiding it to her left side.  He’s still, waiting.  And then he feels it, the fluttering of little kicks, barely perceptible from the outside.  He sits there, awed, at a loss for words.

 

“She’s hungry,” Peggy says flatly.  She pushes herself to her feet, dislodging his hand.  “Come on,” she says.  “There will be cake at the reception.”

 

* * *

 

Peggy doesn’t miss the fact that Steve doesn’t seem to want to let her get out of arm’s reach, much less out of his sight.  She supposes she can’t really blame him.  If she had the space to reconsider, she would likely decide this is a huge mistake.  And he seems determined to avoid giving her that opportunity.

 

He does get her a piece of cake.  And then lets her eat most of his piece too.  He looks better than the last time she saw him, but he still doesn’t look good.  She can’t help but think of him in his crappy little apartment doing physical therapy exercises, not eating or sleeping, with no one to look after him.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her temple.

 

She frowns at him.  “Just thinking about you.”

 

“I make you sad?” he asks, brow furrowed.

 

“The thought of you alone in that awful little apartment is more than enough to make me sad,” she says.

 

He arches an eyebrow at her.  “For the record, I didn’t choose to be alone.  Someone else made that choice for me.”

 

Peggy refuses to apologize.  She had perfectly legitimate reasons for not inviting him back into her life.  

 

It’s just that she can’t particularly remember what any of them are at the moment.  Or why they were so important.

* * *

 

When the reception is over, they head to the palace.  Steve knew she was living there again, thanks to Scott and his endless yammering about everything involving the Empress.  It looks like there’s still a lot of construction under way.  Steve doesn’t blame Peggy at all for needing to gut the space and make it her own, erase every hint of Obadiah Stane.

 

The palace complex is enormous.  They’re taken to what Steve assumes must be some kind of pool house, away from the main residence.  It’s the nicest house Steve has ever been in, though, admittedly, it wouldn’t take much.  Peggy’s guards stop at the door and they go inside alone.

 

As soon as they’re inside, Steve reaches for her kissing her.  She grabs his arm and pulls him down the hall to her bedroom.

 

Steve doesn’t notice much of the house, but truly he doesn’t care.  Peggy is the only thing that matters.  Touching Peggy.  Kissing Peggy.  Loving Peggy.

 

They tumble into the bed together, hurriedly shedding clothes.  For all their frantic need, they’re more careful with each other than is typical.  They take things slower, like they’re both trying to learn one another again.

 

Afterward, they lay together in a tangle of sheets.  Peggy is on her side, with Steve pressed against her back.  His hand rests against the gentle swell of her belly, which she grumpily assures him is more cake than baby at this point.  His nose is buried against the nape of her neck as he drifts off to sleep.  He finally feels like he’s home.

 

* * *

 

Peggy yawns and stretches, rolling onto her back.  It’s early evening and the light is fading.  She looks at Steve, still asleep, his face half buried in the pillow.  She knows, without asking, that he hasn’t been sleeping well.  She hasn’t been sleeping well either.  It’s part of why the healers were brought in from Asgard.  But even with all their technology, there’s nothing they can do for a broken heart.

 

Slowly, she pushes herself into a sitting position, looking down at him.  She remembers, with aching precision, what it felt like to watch him fight for his life in that hospital.  She knew then that she couldn't do it.  She couldn’t watch him die.  It would have finished her off.  When she found out he was going to make a full recovery, she ran.  And she didn’t look back.

 

Of course, her retreat was a disaster.  She’s been a wreck without him.  And judging from the way he looks, he hasn’t fared any better.

 

“Steve.”

 

He frowns without opening his eyes and his arm reaches out, searching for her.  When he finds her, he pulls her down against him, cuddling her close.  “Hmmm?”

 

She breathes him in, reveling in the feel of his naked skin against her own.  He kisses her.  She indulges them both for a short while before pulling back and waiting until he opens his eyes and looks at her.

 

“I missed you,” she says seriously.

 

“I missed you too,” he replies quietly.  “Does this mean I can come home?”

 

She winces.  “Yes, of course.”

 

He takes a deep breath, seeming relieved.  “You gave my job to someone else.”

 

She frowns at him.  “Were you wanting it back?  I thought you had a job.  Do you not like it?”

 

“I like it,” he says.  “I like being able to touch you more.”  He punctuates this declaration by cupping a breast.

 

Peggy rolls her eyes.  “Well, I hate to break it to you, but being the Captain of my Guard does not actually come with that perk.  It was limited to  _ you _ in that role.”

 

“Oh, well fine, then,” he says.  “I’ll keep my day job as long as it comes with the same perk.”

 

She traces a finger along the edge of his jaw.  “You don’t have to work,” she says.  “Unless you want to.”

 

“Are you suggesting that I be a kept man?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.  She sighs and opens her mouth and he pinches her lightly, kissing her.  “I’m kidding,” he says.  “Lighten up.  I’m keeping my job.  I like it.  Besides, I don’t want the kid to think I’m a trophy husband.”

 

Peggy growls, leaning forward and biting him lightly on the shoulder.  “I don’t know why I missed you so much.  You’re terrible.”

 

He kisses her again.  “Because you get sick of everyone doing everything you say.”

 

She doesn’t argue.  Mostly because she thinks he might actually have a point.

 

After more kissing, she finally coaxes him to the shower.  She winces, her eyes pricking with tears when she gets a good look at his scars.  He gathers her close and whispers in her ear, “I’m fine.  Now.”

 

She wraps her arms around him all the same, unconvinced.

 

* * *

 

It takes a depressingly short amount of time for Steve to gather up his things and move them into Peggy’s place.  One trip.  Dugan and Morita help him.  Steve messages his mother to let her know he’s moving, so she doesn’t show up at his apartment the next time he refuses to answer her calls. Somehow he doubts she’ll show up at the Imperial palace looking for him.  Even if she does, she’ll have a hell of a time trying to find him.

 

Steve collapses onto the bed, exhausted.  He knows he has to be better about the physical therapy.  He’s not much use to anybody in this state.

 

Peggy frowns when she sees the boxes stacked in the corner of the bedroom, but all she says is, “I thought I’d seen the last of that stuff when I stopped working for Fury.”

 

“Nope,” Steve announces, “I brought it with me.”

 

She sighs, but climbs into the bed, snuggling against him.  “It’s a good thing I love you so much.”

 

**END CHAPTER**


	14. Chapter 14

Steve buckles down with the physical therapy.  He’s eating and sleeping better, and considerably happier and more settled.  So it doesn’t take long before he sees real progress physically.  His left knee still gives him problems occasionally, but the limp is mostly gone.  And his range of motion with his left arm has greatly improved.  He’s gained back a lot of the muscle he lost.  Peggy still frets about the scars and his health, in general, but he finds that pretty endearing most of the time.

 

Steve worries about Peggy too.  She’s finally gotten to the point where she can’t disguise the pregnancy with clothes or careful camera angles.  So he knows one of her mouthpieces is going to be issuing a statement very soon.  Steve has no idea if they’re going to mention him or not.  And he doesn’t really care.  As far as he knows, it’s not common knowledge that he and Peggy are involved, much less that they’re married.  He enjoys the anonymity.

 

Peggy’s schedule has finally settled into a sort of routine.  Steve suspects it’s because Michael is taking a bigger role.  Steve isn’t about to argue, since it means Peggy hasn’t been woken up in the middle of the night to deal with a crisis in the last month.

 

The Empire is still struggling.  None of the problems can be easily resolved.  Stane did serious damage to the Imperial infrastructure, over decades.  Peggy removed most of the Imperial bureaucrats wholesale.  It was too big of a risk to keep them around.  Peggy wasn’t willing to risk that there might still be people loyal to Stane.  So, the internal mechanisms of the Empire are short staffed.  The Council has picked up a lot of the slack.  Moreso than they ever have in the history of the Empire.  

 

Steve knows Peggy doesn’t like the Council involvement, but she has little choice.  They need bodies to keep the Empire running.  Steve has been shocked at how much his mother has minded her own business through all of this.  He’s not sure what to think of that.  He suspects it has more than a little to do with the fact that Sarah wants to see her grandchild.

 

Steve still sees his mother, though not as much as he did before he reconciled with Peggy.  The last time he saw Sarah, she seemed pleased at the progress he was making physically.  She somewhat reluctantly admitted that Peggy must be good for him.  

 

* * *

 

Steve sits down at his desk and glances over at Scott.  He then looks at Claire who just rolls her eyes.  Scott is sitting at his desk, but he’s collapsed onto it facedown, moaning forlornly.

 

“The Empress is pregnant,” Claire finally says.

 

“Oh,” Steve says.  He shakes his head.

 

Scott sighs loudly and turns his head, looking at Steve.  “Do you think the baby is Asgardian?”

 

“ _ No _ ,” Steve says, typing his password into his datapad.  “She’s Porthi.”

 

Scott shifts, resting his chin in his hand.  “How do you know?”

 

“Because Peggy is Porthi,” Steve says.  “And so am I.”

 

Scott is quiet.  “ _ Bullshit _ .”

 

Steve shrugs.  

 

“Rogers you liar,” Scott says, “you are not nailing - “

 

Steve grabs a letter opener and flings it at Scott, piercing his jacket and shirt and embedding it into his desk, pinning him there.  “That’s my wife and daughter you’re talking about, Lang,” Steve says tightly.  “Watch your mouth.”

 

Scott just blinks at him with eyes the size of saucers.

 

* * *

 

After lunch, Scott tosses his datapad down on Steve’s desk.  It’s a grainy video feed of Steve and Peggy taking a walk a couple of evenings ago, hand in hand.  It’s obvious it was taken from a considerable distance.  There’s some ridiculous, salacious headline about the Empress’s ‘mystery man’.  Steve shrugs.

 

“What the hell?” Scott asks.

 

Steve sighs.  “I already told you.  I’m married to her.”

 

“Since when?” Scott demands.

 

“Since none of your business,” Steve replies.  Truthfully, he’s not even sure how to answer that question.  Depending on how one chooses to define his marriage to Peggy, they’ve potentially been married since before they ever became physically involved.  Or when Peggy announced their marriage to the Council.  It’s a discrepancy of several months.  Steve supposes he better figure it out so he doesn’t inadvertently miss their anniversary.

 

Scott shakes his head, obviously upset.  “She’s due in a month,” he says.  “She has only been back in the Empire for six months.”

 

Steve shrugs again.  “I didn’t meet her in the Empire, Lang.”

 

Scott looks lost and upset and Steve absolutely does not have time for this ridiculousness.  He heads to the break room and pours himself a cup of coffee.  Claire is in there, leaning against the cabinets, watching him.

 

“Are you really married to her?” she asks.

 

“Yes,” Steve says firmly.  Claire already knew he was married.  He put in his request for paternity leave last week.  He wasn’t obligated to declare to whom he is married.

 

* * *

 

Steve tells Peggy about his day and she just arches an eyebrow at him.  

 

“You stabbed your coworker?”  She’s laying in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows while Steve rubs her feet.

 

“I didn’t stab him,” Steve says.  “I was making a point.”

 

Peggy rolls her eyes and then winces.  Steve gently releases her feet and then crawls over her, kissing her belly.

 

“She’s running out of room,” Peggy grouches.  “It’s becoming very uncomfortable for both of us.”

 

“You don’t have much more time,” Steve says, in a tone that he hopes is encouraging.  The look Peggy gives him doesn’t seem particularly placated.

 

* * *

 

Steve has no idea how prophetic his words are, but when Peggy wakes him shortly before dawn, he understands the baby is done waiting, regardless of what the calendar might say.  Steve calls the midwife, who arrives quickly with two assistants.

 

Steve does his best, attempting to be helpful and encouraging.  He gets banished to the living room for his troubles.  He paces restlessly and the midwife gives him a sympathetic look, informing him that it’s likely to be a long labor and Peggy will have plenty of time to change her mind about wishing him dead.

 

Michael shows up.  It’s pretty clear he’s there to lend moral support to Steve.  And Steve appreciates it.  He isn’t close to Michael, but they’re family now.  He knows they have to forge some kind of relationship.

 

The day drags out and everyone is exhausted, Peggy most of all.  It’s nearing twilight when she yells for Steve and he bolts into the room.  While it’s not quick, it’s still a blur afterward to Steve.  Things seems to progress at a snail’s pace, and then all at once, it’s frantic activity and yelling.  

 

And then, suddenly, she’s there.  Their little girl, nestled against Peggy’s chest.

 

Peggy looks at him, frowning as she reaches over and wipes away his tears.  “It’s okay,” she says softly.

 

He shakes his head, completely unable to articulate what he’s feeling.  He settles for wrapping his arms around both of them and holding them tight.

 

* * *

 

“Yes, I know I’m not your mother,” Steve says patiently to the squalling infant.

 

He takes her into the bedroom where Peggy is trying to sleep.  Peggy is already rolling over, unbuttoning her shirt as she reaches for her daughter.  She cuddles her close and the baby latches on, grunting noisily as she eats.

  
“Sorry,” Steve says.  “I know you didn’t get to sleep for very long.”

 

“It’s okay,” Peggy says, yawning.  “I need to get up anyway and start getting ready.”

 

Once the baby is fed, Peggy hands her back to Steve and he burps her while Peggy showers.   By the time Peggy is done showering, the baby is out cold on Steve’s shoulder.  

 

Steve is relieved that his daughter seems to like him, provided she doesn’t get hungry.  When she gets hungry, Peggy is the only person she will tolerate.  Steve has never mentioned it, but that particular quirk reminds him more of Peggy than anything else the baby has done in the entire two months since she was born.  Steve knows not to get between a Carter and lunch.

 

* * *

 

The Council Temple is quiet.  It’s an intimate affair.  Sarah officiates the christening.  Peggy and Steve are there, obviously.  And Michael, Dottie and John.  But no one else, aside from a few of Peggy’s guards.

 

Sarah holds the baby during the christening, which Steve suspects isn’t exactly traditional.  But no one is willing to argue with the Council elder, or to try and wrestle her granddaughter out of her arms.

 

Sarah rubs the oil over the baby’s forehead.  “We welcome you, Katherine Carter,” Sarah says.  “Into our hearts and into your Empire.”

 

* * *

 

The reception after the christening is much more festive.  Fury and the whole crew are in attendance, along with Thor, Sif and several other Asgardians who Steve is doing his damndest to avoid.  Malea is there, having been invited to Porth by Peggy several months ago.  She tells Steve she’s studying at the university and she seems happy.  Steve’s coworkers were all invited - by Peggy - and Steve thinks that Scott might actually have a stroke when Peggy tells him hello.  

 

Sarah is still holding Katie and her glare is more than enough to discourage anyone from trying to take the heir to the Empire from her.  Steve is trying to avoid Scott when Helen finds him, clamps her hand around his arm and informs him he’s going to introduce her to Thor.

 

At some point during the party, Steve does manage to get his daughter back from his mother.  It isn’t lost on Steve that it coincides with a diaper change.  After that, then Katie is hungry and Steve has to find Peggy.  But after that, then  _ finally _ Katie falls asleep on his shoulder.  And Steve is categorically done letting anyone else look at her or hold her.  Not even Natasha.  And definitely not Howard.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Peggy looks at Steve from where she’s laying in their bed.  She’s trying not to laugh.

 

“ _ What _ ?” he says petulantly.

 

“You know,” she says, “she’s the heir to the Empire.  You’re not going to be able to spend her entire life glaring at people until they leave her alone.”

 

“That sounds like a challenge,” he says darkly. “And one I’m up to.”

 

Peggy shakes her head.  “Come here,” she says.  “I have another challenge for you.”

 

He laughs, but pulls his undershirt over his head and tosses it on the floor.  “I hate to break it to you, Peg, but you’re not a challenge.”

 

She growls and pinches his side as he reaches for her.  Undaunted, he captures her lips, stretching out on the bed next to her.  As fun as it would be to pretend to be mad at him, she doesn’t want to waste their rare moment of time alone.  She pushes at the waistband of his shorts.

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says with badly feigned nonchalance, between kisses, “does this mean I’m your consort again?”

 

She huffs in frustration.  “I married you  _ and _ had your kid  _ and _ let you sleep in my bed.  Why do you insist on labeling everything?”

 

He unwraps her robe, pushing the material away, kissing down the valley between her breasts.  “You’re not answering my question.”

 

“Romantic notions aside,” she says, hooking her toe in the waistband of his shorts and skimming them down his legs, “when would I  _ possibly _ have time or energy to audition new consorts between you, a newborn and trying to fix this clusterfuck of an Empire?”

 

He shakes his head, kissing her belly.  “Still not answering the question.”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she curses.  “Fine.   _ Yes _ .  You’re my consort.  Or husband.  Call yourself whatever you want.  Just get on with the servicing of your Empress and wife.”

 

He laughs, hooking her leg over his shoulder.  “Thank you.  Was that so hard?”

 

“Not right this second, but hopefully later.”

 

He seems to take umbrage at her humor and settles down to make a point.  He parts her with his fingers, teasing her with the tip of his tongue.

 

She hisses, rolling her hips against his mouth.  “ _ Fuck,  _ Steve.”

 

“That’s the idea,” he says dryly.

 

She digs a heel into his back.  He grunts, but takes the hint, dispensing with the teasing as he uses fingers and lips and tongue to quickly bring her to two shivering peaks.  

 

Peggy lays there, blissfully sated. She’s vaguely aware of Steve taking her hand, slipping something on her finger.  She lifts her hand and looks at the ring.  It’s simple, but beautiful.  She’s still laying there, looking at her hand when he presses a kiss to her cheek.  

 

“Happy anniversary.”

 

She looks at him and slowly reaches out, cupping her hand along his jaw.  She draws him down for a lingering kiss, tugging him over her.  He enters her slowly and then goes still, resting against her as they kiss languidly.

 

She pulls back and looks at him.  “I love you.”

 

He presses his forehead to hers.  “I love you too.”

 

He begins to move and Peggy wraps her legs around his waist, revelling in the feel of him.  She almost threw all this away.  Because she was scared of losing him.  

 

He rolls them over, so she’s on top, his hands finding her hips as she moves on him.  She braces her hands against his shoulders, watching him as she rolls her hips.   _ “Peggy _ ,” he groans.

 

She doesn’t drag it out - who knows how much time they’re going to have.  She rides him faster, harder and he curses, slamming her hips down against his own as he comes.

 

They’re both breathing hard, trying to catch their breaths when a high pitched wail splits the air.  Peggy sighs.  Steve chuckles darkly, pushing her over, rolling her onto her side as he rises from the bed, reaching for his shorts.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, after Katie has been fed and changed and eventually lulled back to sleep, Steve and Peggy lay together in bed.  

 

“So, the Porthi sex thing,” Peggy says.

 

Steve groans.  “There is no Porthi sex thing,” he says, for what feels like the thousandth time.

 

She looks at him, frowning.  “I’ve had  _ a lot _ of sex.  And none of it was the way it is between you and me.”

 

He rolls his eyes.  “Fine,” he admits.  “Yeah.  You’re the only person I’ve ever had sex like this with either.”

 

“And if you don’t believe in the Porthi sex thing, then how do you explain it?” she demands.

 

He sighs, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks down at her.  “It’s not just sex,” he says.  “It’s never been just sex.  Not even the first time. I love you.  And you love me.  And we’re really physically compatible.”

 

Peggy sighs, groaning.  “That is such a boring answer.”

 

He just shakes his head.  “Go to sleep, Peggy.”

 

She sighs, rolling onto her side and he curls against her back.  He presses his nose against the nape of her neck and she sighs.  “I’m glad you’re home where you belong, Steve.”

 

He holds her tighter.  “Me too.  Go to sleep.”

  
END STORY


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